The Fire that Burns Within
by Lacey-Mae Emelia
Summary: In the heat of war emotions run rampant and actions taken can never be undone. But once the war is over, can those actions really ever be forgiven and forgotten, or even justified in the light of battle? Will Katniss ever forgive Haymitch for sacrificing Peeta to the Capitol, even when he is all she has left?
1. Peeta's Message

The war rages on outside of my four walled cage buried deep below the earth. I might as well be oblivious to it...sometimes I wish I was, but as I've found out, wishes don't come true, and false hope is a dangerous game to play at.

**xxxxxxx**

I pick sullenly at the grizzly piece of meat covered in strange brown goop on the tray in front of me; even Greasy Sae's dog bone broth was better than this. With a sigh I pick up the tray from my lap and let it fall to the floor with a clatter, a chunk of meat jumping off and landing with a splatter on the floor. How they expect anyone to eat this stuff I don't know.

But then I don't know a lot of things. Like how this all started. Like why I'm still here.

It feels like most of my time in District 13 has been spent here in the hospital, staring at white walls and white ceilings. They say I'm depressed, or confused, or both, something with the word 'syndrome' in it anyway; I stopped listening to them when they told me that Peeta was gone. I've been pumped full of drugs, prodded and poked by all manner of strange people in white cloaks, ignored and suffocated in concern. 'I'm the Mockingbird!' I want to scream at them, but still they whisper behind hands whilst I can only stare groggily at them through a drug induced haze, the words I wish I could say caught in my throat like a clot.

Finally though they took away the tubes and the haze has cleared. Sort of. The sharp stabbing pain that felt like a shard of glass nestled in an artery is no longer there like it was before. But I still feel a dull throb right where my heart used to be. It's like someone ripped it out and replaced it with one that doesn't quite work properly. Like someone came along and replaced everything good inside of me with lead. Maybe I am depressed like they say. Or confused. Right now though, I just feel...lost. Lost in my own miserable existence. Lost from losing everything I once held dear.

I throw a suspicious glance at the perfectly cubed lump of meat that's slowly congealing on the floor. Perhaps they're trying to poison me, I'm sure it would be easier that way. Right now they have to put up with moping Katniss, half-dead Katniss, the Katniss who doesn't want to be Katniss any longer. I wrinkle my nose in disgust and vow not to eat another morsel they put in front of me, although my own body quickly foils my plan by sounding a gargling rumble from my stomach.

I contemplate going in search of a decent meal, maybe even a biscuit or two. Surely the food they serve to the rest of 13 is perfectly fine, but the doctors have always locked the door to the room after they leave, something about my trying to escape once before. Which confirms their motives really: I'm not here by choice and 'escape' is the operative word. Who would want to escape from somewhere they have chosen to be? Just to be sure though, I swing my legs off of the bed and make for the door, making sure to land far away from the mess of a 'meal' on the floor. The floor is cold against my bare feet and I feel vulnerable in just the flimsy hospital gown they have put me in. I shiver and wrap an arm around my midsection, the other trying the door handle, but it stays locked shut. I wiggle it in frustration and slap my palm flat against the wood, my skin tingling in response. The door remains shut. No body comes. I turn and kick the door with my heel for good measure and make my way back to the standard hospital bed, climbing back between the still warm covered.

There's a TV which has been placed overlooking the bed, and I turn it on, trying to ignore the empty feeling in my stomach. I'm immediately confronted with my own face, bold, braided and painted. The rebels are airing the "_Because you know who they are and what they do_" propo that Messalla edited. I watch myself as I shake hands with the injured people in the makeshift hospital of District 8, and touch the hair of the small children who are not so badly hurt that they are able to shift out of their crude stretchers and gather around me like a small flock of birds. The footage is occasionally intercut with short studio clips of Gale, Boggs and Cressida describing the incident. When the bombs start falling, I can't help but shiver and look away, only looking back when I hear myself say "If we burn, you burn with us". Apparently this has become some sort of slogan for the rebellion now. What fools.

Watching the bombing again has made me sick, and I feel an acrid bile rising up in my throat. Picking up the remote control I go to turn off the TV but before I can do so the Capitol's symbol flickers onto the screen and my finger pauses over the 'off' button. The tinny sound of the anthem plays out and Caesar Flickerman appears on screen, his powdered blue hair pulled back from his face, giving him an unpleasant look of someone having their skin pulled taut by a crocodile clip. I wonder whether this is supposed to be attractive.

I'm about to turn off again when the camera pans across the stage to a lone figure sitting in the same chair in which the Tributes were interviewed in a lifetime ago. Peeta's physical transformation shocks me. I grimace at the black shadows underneath his eyes and the cheekbones which protrude prominently from his face. He must have lost at least fifteen pounds from the last time I saw him. Even though he's dressed in fine Capitol clothes of ivory silk and red velvet, the material hangs off him at strange angles, like someone has dressed him in clothes two sizes too big.

Caesar and Peeta have a few empty exchanges before Caesar asks him about rumours that I'm taping propos for the districts. "They're using her, obviously," says Peeta. "To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake."

"Is there anything you'd like to tell her?" asks Caesar.

"There is," says Peeta. He looks directly into the camera, right into my eyes, the familiar blue gaze lacking its usual warmth. "Don't be a fool Katniss" he begins, "think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on?"

Caesar has been nodding along beside him the whole time that Peeta has rattled off this speech. The look of concern on his face is almost believable until he flashes his brilliant white smile to the camera again. "Well there you have it -" he begins, before Peeta's voice comes over the airwaves again.

"Wait", he says. A look of worry crosses over Caesar's face, before once again his plastic smile returns to normal. I can tell that this wasn't a part of the plan. The camera pans out again and if possible, Peeta looks even smaller in the overgrown chair and overlarge clothes. "I, I just wanted to to say," Peeta begins shakily. He looks to Caesar, and then to an unknown figure out of shot, and then back into the lens of the camera again. I can see, even from the other end of the lens, that his resolve has suddenly hardened.

"Be ready. They're coming" he says in a steady voice. For a moment there's silence, both at his end and mine. I swear I've stopped breathing. Suddenly all hell breaks loose and the camera veers widely off to the side, but not before I catch once last glimpse of Peeta being dragged from the chair by a gang of Peacekeepers, and the blood which sprays onto the white floor tiles.

Someone in the Capitol must finally have been able to shut off the live feed, as without warning the screen goes black and the Seal of Panem flares brightly on the screen. I stare motionless, frozen in place in front of the now still television. It's as if something inside me snaps. I swear I can almost hear it.

An almost inhuman wail fills the air of my small room, and it takes a while to register it has come from me. I launch myself from the bed, tangled in the sheets and blankets and fall to the floor in a crash. A blazing pain shoots from my knees up both my tibia but I ignore it, focusing only on the twisted shard of glass which has reappeared with a vengeance inside my chest at seeing Peeta. My poor Peeta.

_What have they done to you?_

I thrash out and my arm hits the side of the metal tray which stands next to the bed. I try to use it to haul myself up, but only succeed on bringing it down on top of myself. This fuels my rage even further and I scream out again. The syringes and bottles of pills which they've used countless times on me roll into view and I pick one up. I don't know what I'm going to do with it, only that I have to hurt everyone that has ever stood in my way, thats ever hurt Peeta, and Prim, and Gale, and everyone else I've ever cared about.

With the fire burning inside of me I manage to pull myself off the floor and throw myself at the door. I begin pounding on it with my fists, scratching and clawing at the door, the caged and crazy animal that they're always suspected I was. Somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear myself screaming again, but the voice sounds oddly detached. The only thing I can see is red and my rage consumes me.

Suddenly the door is flung open and I almost fall into the person standing on the other side. I don't though, and barrel past them, knocking the person in the white cloak to the floor. Before I can take more than a few strides though I'm caught in a pair of strong arms, whose hold grabs around both of my wrists. I thrash wildly and a part of me wonders whether this time I might actually have gone crazy.

"Drop it" I hear a firm voice from above me say. There's a pressure on my right wrist and I feel the syringe slip from my grasp as my fingers involuntary open. It falls to the ground with a clatter, my only weapon gone. For a second I can do nothing but stare at it, as if everything I planned to do and everything I could and would have done has completely dissipated into thin air, but then the rage is back even stronger, and I struggle even more desperately to be free of whoever it is holding me back.

I can hear footsteps and the squeak of a trolley and the shout of voices coming closer. Something tells me that they're coming for me and that they'll kill me, torture me, just like the Capitol has done to Peeta. Panic breaks through the rage. _I have to go_. Peeta had tried to warn me.

_"Do you really trust these people?"_

_No_, I realise suddenly. _No I don't_. I manage to pull a wrist free but before I can make an escape I'm grabbed around my torso and pulled back, my arms pinned to my sides. I launch a kick and feel my foot come into contact with soft flesh. There's a grunt but other than that I'm still restrained by the strong grip around my body. "You're going to pay for that, sweetheart", I hear a low voice growl above me. I'm spun around and pulled against a chest, my legs captured between somebody else's.

There's hands grabbing hold of my arms now, and I feel a prick as a needle enters my arm. It's as if the fight suddenly goes out of me, and I'm left feeling exhausted. My legs go from underneath me and I feel the arms around me loosen, no longer restraining me, but instead picking me up from where I've sank to the floor. My head rests against a warm but hard chest, and I can smell pine and grass, but mostly liquor. I realise then who it was restraining me and who was now carrying me away. I'd know that smell anywhere. _Haymitch_.

I managed to mumble the last coherent thing that comes to my mind before sleep completely consumes me.

"I trusted you".

**xxxxxx**

I don't dream but I can hear. Sometimes there's a long piercing scream. I think it could belong to me, but sometimes it morphs into Prim's, or sometimes my mother's, but most often Peeta's. Other times I swear I can hear the swoosh of a baton and a dull thud as it meets bone and muscle. Sometimes all I can hear is silence, but it's heavy and consuming and stifles me.

I wonder whether I am dead and how long I've been dead for. Minutes? Hours? Sometimes I think years. I wonder if Prim misses me. I wonder what type of funeral they had for me. Did Gale cry?

But just as I become sure I'm dead, I can hear my name being called. It's as if I'm below water, drowning in a deep lake, and someone is calling me from the surface. _"Katniss"._ I try and swim towards it but it always fades, although every time I hear the call it's closer to me again, until at some point I'm right next to it.

"Katniss".

My eyes open slowly. There's a light above me. It's bright and I try to shield my eyes, only my find my hands restrained by thick leather belts which wrap around my wrists. I try to move my legs only to find the same restraints wrapped around both ankles. The feeling of being completely trapped scares me, and I feel panic rising from the pit of my stomach as I try and pull my limbs from their bindings to no avail.

There's a cool hand on my forehead though and a soft voice whispering in my ear. Somewhere a button bleeps and I feel a surge of drugs being pumped back into my system. My eyes close again and the panic subdues until I'm left in the darkness again.

When I wake next, the room is dark. I try to move but I'm still bound to the bed. I'm expecting it this time though and don't struggle so much. There's a sound next to me and I try to move my stiff neck to ascertain who or what it came from. My eyes make out the shape of another human being sitting in a chair to my right, his or her form lit dimly by the glowing lights of the monitors which stand next to the bed.

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and slowly I can make out the broad shoulders, a flop of blonde hair, the shirt rolled up the forearms, and the blonde stubble on his chin. As if he could sense me watching him, he opens his eyes and pushes himself off the chair, coming to stand next to me.

He studies me from a moment and I in turn stare up at him. There's so much I want to scream at him. I want to hit him and punch him and gouge his skin with my nails, but instead I do nothing. Haymitch's gray eyes bare down on me as if he's trying to work something out. The silence stretches out between us as we both study one another. Finally though he speaks, gesturing to the restraints holding me in place.

"If I let you out of these" he says, "there can be no repeat of last time". I continue to stare at him, testing him. "I mean it sweetheart" he warns, his voice laced with an edge of command. He makes no move towards me as he waits for my response, so I tilt my head slowly in assent. He moves closer then and I can feel his cold fingers unbuckling the leather straps around my wrists and ankles. He takes a step away, his eyes never leaving my own. I expected to feel a glut of terrible emotion towards him, but all I can feel is strangely detached. Not anger. Not rage. Not hurt. Just the feeling of complete and utter nothingness.

I slowly push myself up in bed, feeling my stiff muscles screech in protest and I wonder how long I've been out for. Haymitch settles himself in the chair again and passes a hand across his eyes, running it through his hair and sighing deeply.

"I -" he begins, but stops, unsure of how to go on. "You weren't meant to see that", he starts again. He goes to gesture to the corner of the room where the TV had been, but I realise that it's been removed. I remain silent and Haymitch continues when he realises he's not going to get a response.

"We knew they'd always try to use Peeta against us, against _you_, but well we never realised -", he trails off, his gaze falling to his feet. "You know, Peeta saved us - when he said about being ready. Coin realised at once that he meant that the Capitol was planning an air strike and she managed to get everyone down to the lower levels before the bombs hit. That's where we are now", Haymitch explains, gesturing half-heartedly around the room with his hand.

For the first time I notice that we're not in the hospital. That he's telling the truth. There's a smell of damp and mildew, rather than the cold sterile cleanliness I've become so accustomed to and even in the dark I can tell that the walls aren't as brilliant a white as normal.

"This is your fault" I manage to croak out, my voice stiff from disuse. I expect Haymitch to answer back with some clever line about how this is Coin's fault, the Capitol's fault, everyone's fault but his own, but instead he nods dejectedly, and his head drops to his chest. "I know" he says in a whisper. I almost feel sorry for him. _Almost_.

"I though that we'd be able to save you both, you _and_ Peeta. We had a small window of time you see, to get you both out of that arena, but when you weren't together, well, we had to choose one of you. _I_ had to choose one of you" says Haymitch.

"You lied to me Haymitch", I spit out, "you promised me that you'd protect him, that he'd be the one to live and survive. I was supposed to die, not Peeta. You promised".

"I know," says Haymitch wearily, running his hand through his hair again. A jolt of realisation passes through me then and suddenly everything becomes clear.

"You promised him the same thing as well though didn't you? You promised Peeta you'd keep me safe, so that I could live".

Haymitch remains silent but nods his head slowly, his expression unreadable as he bows his head to his chin.

"Well you lied to us both then" I say, and I can see my words strike him, his face visibly grimacing.

There's a silence than stretches out for minutes in the dark room, only interspersed by the soft beeping coming from the monitors which cast out a strange green light over the floor of the room. "That's not just it though Katniss", whispers Haymitch after a time. "It wasn't about the promises I made to you and Peeta. Don't you see", he asks, rising from the chair to stand by my bedside and looking me directly in the eyes, "it was bigger than that?"

I consider his words thoughtfully for a moment. And then I understand.

"This was never about us was it? It was all about you and your revenge on the Capitol. You only need me to rally the masses". I can hear my voice growing steadily louder. "Did you even care about us? Does it even matter if we die in the process, or is that actually better for your plan then... to become martyrs for the cause?"

I'm shouting now but I don't care. I feel so used, but not only that I feel betrayed. Betrayed by the one person I though was a true friend to me, my mentor and my guide through everything past even the Games.

"Sweetheart, how can you even say that?" I hear Haymitch say, but the words don't even register properly, they're just sound to me.

"Fine", I hiss, "I'll give you what they want, what they _all_ want". I begin to reach for a pill bottle and I truly intend to take my own life. If I die, perhaps the Capitol will let Peeta go home, perhaps Gale will finally be happy that I don't keep shoving my fake relationship in his face, perhaps Haymitch will finally get the revenge he wants on the Capitol when the death of the Mockingjay spreads through the districts. Even Prim and my mother could finally get on with their lives without having to worry constantly for my safety. _Yes_, I think, _everyone would truly be better off if I were dead_.

My fingers close around the smooth plastic of the bottle but then Haymitch is there and it's being taken from my grasp. The one thing I want, my one right to die, has been taken away from me, like everything else in the world. I lunge for the pills but Haymitch catches my shoulder and pushes me down onto the bed. I feel moisture on my cheeks and I realise that I'm crying, and looking up I see a glistening in Haymitch's eyes too.

"I'm sorry" he mumbles, as one hand keeps me down and the other reaches up to press at the buttons of the machine. I feel a wave of drugs pass into my blood system but as I try to claw the tubes out of my arm I feel the leather straps being pulled tightly around me once again. Unconsciousness takes me back again as a last silent tear spills from my eye and finds it way down my cheek.

**xxxxxxx**

_All reviews are greatly appreciated! _

_Disclaimer: Although I wish I did, I own nothing of this world. All rights belong to Suzanne Collins and Scholastic. Some lines in this Chapter have been lifted from 'Mockingjay' to add some authenticity. _


	2. The Rescue

I sit cross-legged on the floor of the room, the bow that Beetee has given me in my lap, running my hand up and down its smooth length, a scrap of gray cloth in my hand. I try to focus all my energy into working the cloth over the arch of the bow and the smooth mahogany riser. The bow gleams in my hand, and I pluck at the string almost as if it were a harp. I decided a while ago now that it's best not to dwell on the war.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here. Time passes in strange ways in District 13, presumably because of the lack of natural light to indicate the time of day. I guess having a schedule to follow helps, but apart from '_eat breakfast_' I don't think I've followed even one single point on the list inked into my arm.

There's a waft of air at my back and the sound of a door opening and closing. Beetee must have come back. He's often found me sitting in here, but I don't think he minds much. Usually he works, drawing out diagrams and figures on a chalk board, or fixing strange objects to other strange objects. I, in turn, polish and shine the weapons in the room, more often than not my bow. Coin as much as told me I wouldn't be doing any fighting in my 'current mental condition', which I take to mean as her and pretty much everyone else worrying that I'll shatter into a million pieces. Maybe I will, but even though my beautiful bow will probably not see the open light of day, I take pleasure in my almost daily activities; it calms me and both Beetee and I like the company...and the silence.

It's not Beetee that has come into the high ceilinged weaponry room though, it's Gale. He sits down on the floor next to me and without saying a word takes down a large machine gun from the wall and begins to dismantle it. Before long the gun is in pieces, its limbs scattered along the floor. A flash of memory strikes me of the bombing of District 8 and the hands and legs and even heads scattered along the blood stained floor after the air-strike. An involuntary shudder goes through me. Gale sees, but he pretends not to notice, picking up the pieces and cleaning them with his long slender fingers.

"When do you leave?" I ask him, still concentrating on polishing the intricate handle of the bow.

"Tonight" says Gale, frowning as he tries to polish away a mark on the butt of the gun.

"I want to come". Gale shakes his head, a lock of brown hair falling into his eyes.

"You know you can't Katniss, and anyway, it's not even my decision" he says as I predicted.

"Oh really" I sneer, "well that thing on your wrist says differently". Gale frowns again, looking hurt, before he looks over and realises I'm joking. I give him a poke in the ribs just so he's sure. We both laugh and for a minute it's just like it's always been, I can almost smell the earthy scents of the wood back in District 12. But of course I can't, that's all gone now, the wood, the homes, the Seam...my old life where everything was so hard, but somehow so much more simpler than now. I reach up and brush the strand of hair that has fallen across Gale's forehead back behind his ear.

"You need a haircut". Gale laughs

"Well you're certainly not giving me one!" he says, although he doesn't attempt to move my hand away.

"Why?!" I pretend to be hurt. "Is it because I'm "mentally unstable"?' I joke, pinging my medical wristband against my skin where the words are written in dark bold letters.

"No, it's because I've seen you skin a rabbit!" Gale laughs and I lunge at him which makes him laugh even harder. Suddenly Gale's on his back and I'm lying on top of him. I can't remember if I pushed him down or he pulled me, all I know is that right now our faces are inches apart. I can feel Gale's hot breath on my skin, his smooth lips inches from my own.

"Do you have to go?" I whisper, suddenly serious. "They can go without you, they have others, Boggs and Regan and Sam". Gale shakes his head.

"I have to go, they need me. Me and Beetee worked on this stuff together, and seeing as he's not exactly going to go, I have to. I _want_ to".

I look down at Gale for a moment. He wants to? At first I'm confused. Gale has never liked Peeta, so why would he want to go on a rescue mission to the Capitol to save him? Why risk life and limb to save a person you could barely even look at? But then I realise that it's not about Peeta, it's simply about getting out there and doing something, anything. It's how I feel now. I just want to help instead of sitting useless on the floor polishing a weapon that's never going to get used.

"I have to be able to do something", I say, disentangling myself from Gale and sitting up. His hand moves to cup my cheek. He moves closer and for a minute I think he's going to kiss me. Something in my stomach stirs but before I have a chance to work out whether its fear or want, he whispers "just stay safe" into my ear, stands and leaves.

I'm left by myself again, and I get to work on putting back together the dismantled gun. I stay until I hear Beetee's familiar hum of a song which I don't know.

**xxxxxxx**

Coin is staring at me. I can't work out whether it's because she's worried I might shatter like a broken china doll in front of her eyes, or because she's annoyed at my incessant foot tapping and finger drumming against the table in the control room.

"They're late" I say, stating the complete obvious. The tension is so thick in this room it's becoming hard to breathe. Gale and the rest of the crew have yet to return from their rescue mission to the Capitol. Communication between us and them was cut out around three hours ago, we think probably because of a Capitol device that shut off the airwaves between Districts.

It's not just the tension in the room, I realise, I really am struggling to breathe. I stand and the three other faces in the room turn to look at me. Coin, Plutarch and Haymitch. None are faces I particularly want to look at right now. "I'm just going for some air" I tell them as I walk from the control room.

"Of course dear", Plutarch says in a fatherly voice, Coin simply nods and Haymitch does nothing, merely looks at me through his shifting green eyes. I don't care if they agree or disagree to my leaving though. I hate the fact they think that I was even asking for permission. It's all I can do to not slam the door as I was storm from the room.

I don't really care where I go. I walk down countless corridors, taking left turns and right turns. Everything looks the same anyway. Somehow though, and I honestly cannot say how, I end up back at my new quarters that have been assigned to myself, my mother and Prim. I open the door to find it empty. Of course, its '_recreation_' time. Everyone will be in the underground sports hall.

Not even bothering to take off my shoes I clamber into the bed closest to the door. I pull the covers over my head and bury my face deep into the pillow. It smells of Prim. My chest and head hurts from the emotion raging through my body like an undercurrent of electricity.

I am worrying for Gale, for his safe return. What if he doesn't make it back? What if the Capitol takes him too and tortures him for information? I couldn't live with myself if my best friend never came home because of me. But what about Peeta? What if he hates me for what the Capitol did to him? But what if he wants more from me though, more than I can give? Do I choose Gale or Peeta? I can't seem to separate my 'fake' feelings for Peeta from the real feelings anymore, no more than I can separate my love for Gale as a friend and my love for Gale as something more. On top of that, the one person I wish I could talk to has betrayed my trust and I hate him for that, even more than I hate Gale for flying off and leaving me here and even more than I hate Peeta for getting hurt by the Capitol in the first place.

At some point I must have fallen asleep because Prim is above me, shaking my shoulder. "They're back!" she saying. It takes me a moment to register what she means before I realise. Gale. Peeta. I fling back the covers and run from the room. I'm planning on going back to the Control room, but I run head first into Finnick along the way who leads me to the new hospital wing, still being rebuilt after the old one was damaged in the bombing.

I catch a glimpse of Gale through a set of blue curtains as we enter and I push past doctors and soldiers to reach him. There's a wound on his shoulder where dried blood is beginning to form, but otherwise he seems okay. I go to hug him gently, conscious of his wound, but he pulls me into a deeper hug, even with just his one arm. His lips are against my hair and I cling greedily to him. "I'm so glad you're alright" I whisper, and I'm surprised to find tears of relief threatening to spill from my eyes.

Gale's hand moves to cradle the back of my head and I feel him stroking slow circles in my hair with his thumb. The motion is unbelievably and undeniably comforting, and I almost consider getting into the bed with him and never getting out again. There's a question that I have to ask though, one that I have been dreading all along.

"Peeta? Is Peeta -". I halt. I can't even say the word. Gale shakes his head.

"He's...alive. But Katniss -" this time I cut Gale off.

"I have to go. I have to see him Gale". I quickly peck him on his cheek and move out of the cubicle. I can hear him shouting after me, but I move on, scared that if I turn around and go back to him I'll loose my nerve to face Peeta, that I really will clamber into bed and never get out again.

The doctors I manage to find tell me that they've put him to sleep and that they will let me know when he wakes up, but for some reason I don't trust them. Maybe it's everything they've done to me, or maybe it's just because their pills and tubes are so different from the herbal remedies that my mother and Prim deal in, but I decide to remain in the hospital instead of venturing back to my room.

I slump down onto a row of hard plastic seats to wait, watching the clock above me as it ticks around slowly. Sometimes I fall asleep, but not for long. The hands of the clock move past midnight, past one and two o'clock. My eyes close but snap open when I hear someone calling my name. It feels like I've been asleep for no time, but the clock is saying that it's eight in the morning. It takes me a minute to register, but the white clad doctor in front of me is telling me that he's awake. Peeta is awake!

After all the waiting, I suddenly feel nervous and I wonder whether I should just head back to my quarters. The doctor is staring at me though, and I twist my wristband nervously, afraid that he can see the block letters 'mentally unstable' stamped in capitols on its face. Of course, he already knows that though.

I nod and stand, indicating that I am ready to follow him. My heart flips and I realise it doesn't matter if Peeta hates me for what I've become, or for abandoning him; I'll never let him down again. I will protect him, I promise myself. I can't trust anyone else to do so, but I can trust myself.

I take a deep breath and push through the double doors to find myself in a sterile white room. Peeta is sitting propped up against numerous large white pillows and I can't help but gasp as I take in his disheveled and malnourished form. His blonde hair is lank and unkempt and there's a large purple bruise which spreads from his eye to his jaw. His usually muscular arms seem small and deflated and I feel a wash of sadness as I think that they were the very same arms that held me and rocked me to sleep when the nightmares came.

"Peeta" I whisper, taking a step into the room.

"Katniss Everdeen" he replies. His voice is hoarse and weak, but there's something else, something in his voice which I've never heard before, and it almost sounds like malice. My own body reacts to it, some deep, carnal, animalistic urge which tells me to run, to get the hell out of this room with this stranger sitting in the bed, but I refuse to let myself believe that this is anyone but my loving and caring Peeta, my bakers boy. I refuse to believe they have broken him.

"Katniss" he repeats again, this time a gentler tone permeating his voice. He pulls back the sheets from his torso and on unsteady legs stands. I'm about to tell him to sit back down, but the very thought of being back in his arms, feeling his soft kisses planted on my forehead and his voice whisper sweet nothings in my ear is too much to resist. We both walk to each other, he on shaky legs, me on rocky feelings.

His arms are outstretched and I close the gap between us quickly. But something is wrong. His arms don't close around me like they should be doing, and the voice in my ear is whispering "die". Suddenly his hands are around my throat, shutting off my air supply so that I can't even yell out for help. I try to fight him off but even in his weakened state he is so much stronger than I am. I claw at his fingers around my throat but it's no use and black and red spots begin to dance across my vision.

I'm going to die. I'll never see Gale again. I'll never see Prim grow up to become a doctor. Suddenly I realise...I don't want to die after all...

And then I can breathe again.

Somebody is pulling me from behind, dragging me out of the room and a team of doctors is battling to sedate Peeta who keeps yelling "die" and "mutt" and "abomination".

I hiccup down a laugh and fathom that perhaps Coin was right, perhaps I really might break. Unexpectedly another laugh escapes from inside of me, until I'm sitting on the floor laughing manically, tears rolling down my face. There's pressure on my arm and I know they're putting me to sleep, but this time I don't struggle. I welcome the darkness.

**xxxxxxx**

I awake with a gasp and my first thought is that I can't breathe. My hands claw at my neck, trying to rid myself of the phantom fingers that are snaked around it. Of course, there are none, but still the air I desperately need to fill my lungs won't come. Panic floods through me as my hands clutch at my throat, but then somebody is taking my hands in their own and pulling them away from my bruised and sore neck.

I feel a weight settle on the bed next to me and then I'm pulled up so that I'm sitting, my back resting against a hard chest. Arms encircle me and I feel an oxygen mask pressed to my face. "It's okay, sweetheart, it's going to be okay" the voice whispers. I wait for the rage, the anger, the hatred in the pit of my stomach which I've felt every time I've heard his voice since the day he told me that I was merely a tool in a greater plan, but I only feel relief. Perhaps it was my near death experience, perhaps because Haymitch loves Peeta too, but I slump back against him and begins to cry, large sobs wracking through my body. The mask is removed and his hands are back again, one brushing my hair away from my forehead and the other brushing the tears away from my cheeks.

"I don't understand" I try to say, but all that comes out is a soft wheeze between hiccups.

"Shhhh, it's okay. Don't try to speak, sweetheart. Shhhh"

His voice is comforting. I don't think I've ever heard Haymitch be this gentle, although a voice in the back of my mind tells me that it's his way of paying me back for the guilt he is most probably feeling. Still though, the slow circles his thumb makes as it brushes over my skin reminds me of Gale holding me tight to him on his return from Panem, but also of my father, caressing the skin over my forehead and temple whenever I had a bad headache. Slowly I begin to stop crying, but I clutch at the arm holding me up. I think I'm scared that if it stops holding me, I'll fall apart all together.

There's so much I want to ask, but I'm exhausted and my eyes droop closed. I can feel my head tilt towards my chest as I fall asleep but I'm determined to stay awake, to ask Haymitch about Peeta, about what happened on the rescue, about what the Capitol did to him to make him hate me so much. The words "mutt" and "abomination" run through my mind, over and over, like some constant ticker-tape in my head.

"Go to sleep Katniss" Haymitch whispers. His hand slides under my head and gently moves me from his lap. I try to resist but I'm asleep before my head has even hit the pillow.

**xxxxxxx**

I dream that I'm back in the arena, crashing through the dense undergrowth to get back to Peeta. The small orange bag around my wrist has a large number '12' painted onto it, and I rush back to the cave, desperate to give him the medicine that the bag contains. I splash through the water and enter the mouth of the cave but something's wrong. Peeta is staring at me and he begins to shout 'abomination, abomination' over and over again. I back out of the cave quickly and catch sight of myself in the reflection from the pool. I'm a wolf, a mutt.

I wake screaming, but then someone is there, calming me and pushing me to one side of the bed so that they can climb in next to me. Their large eyes stare into my own and a small hand reaches up to brush away a stray tear from my cheek. Prim

"Hey" I croak, my voice still barely above a whisper. Still though, I manage a smile.

"Hey", says Prim and she gives a small smile back. "You okay?"

I nod, although I'm not entirely sure that I _am_ okay and I think Prim can see that too. "Don't worry Kat, we'll make him see, we'll get through to him eventually". I don't really know what she's talking about, but I presume it has something to do with Peeta. I smile weakly at her again, unsure of how to take this new role reversal. When did Prim grow up? My little sister, my little duck, all of a sudden so mature. "Dad would be so proud of you" I manage to choke out.

"Of both of us" Prim whispers back. We cuddle close together like we did back in District 12, and I have no more nightmares that night. When I awake though, Prim is gone and I'm alone again. Silently I slip from the bed and wrap a dressing gown around myself. The door is unlocked this time and I peer into the hallway, but no one tries to stop me as I leave the room. I find myself wandering through the hallways until I end up outside of Peeta's room. I don't know why I came back here. I think maybe a part of me can't actually believe it, even though the dark purple bruises around my throat are proof for everyone to see.

I make no move to go in, and nor do I make to move away. I simply stand and wait, for what though I'm not sure. People pass me in the hallway, some doctors, other simply people visiting friends or relatives. They give me odd looks but I'm sure they probably know me now as the mad Mockingjay, a far cry from the strong and fearless leader that they'd been expecting I'm sure. One of them must have informed my doctors that I was standing in the middle of a hallway staring at a door though, because after only a few minutes I feel a light touch on my arm. I turn, expecting to be confronted with the usual man in white, but instead find Finnick, his eyes concerned, but still dressed in the same standard hospital gown as myself. Perhaps they thought it'd be better to send him in case I got 'freaked out' again.

He directs me to a small room and draws up two seats for the pair of us. I'm about to sit when I realise there's an observation window which looks out onto a room which is similar to my own. There's bright overhead fluorescent lighting and white tiles like scales on the walls. The same metal bed with its high sides sits in the same position as mine, but the person in the bed is decidedly not a feature in my own room: Peeta. This is Peeta's room. I'm drawn to the glass, despite what happened when I was last there and involuntarily my hand reaches up to touch it, as if I were touching Peeta's face itself.

"He can't see you" Finnick explains "one-way glass you see, it's just a mirror on the other side". I nod to show my understanding but suddenly don't feel very up to talking; all I can do is stare at the boy on the other side, the one that loved me, the one that kept me safe, the one that held me in the night, the one that tried to kill me.

He's gained some weight whilst I've been sedated. The purple bruise has faded leaving only a yellowish smear down the side of his face, and somebody has washed his hair and combed it through. Obviously he didn't try to kill them I think with resentment. He's sitting up in bed now, and he almost looks normal. His blue eyes are still colder than I remember, but otherwise there's a small smile playing across his face, and his posture is relaxed and friendly. I realise with a start that he's talking to someone who is sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs, their face turned away from the window which I now look through.

"Who-?" I begin to ask when Finnick joins me at the window.

"Delly Cartwright" he says. I can't help it when I feel a surge of jealously rush through me. Why? Why her? He tries to kill me but can sit and happily hold a conversation with her. But then I feel guilty though: Delly Cartwright didn't get him captured by the Capitol, Delly Cartwright isn't to blame for his torture and heartbreak. Delly Cartwright is everything that I'm not, and everything that Peeta deserves. I turn away from the window ashamed, too guilt-ridden and saddened to watch the exchange between the two old friends from District 12.

I stumble over to the seat and collapse into it, my hands subconsciously reaching out to touching the bruising on my neck. "Tell me Finnick, tell me what happened", I plead.

"Katniss, I'm not sure you're read-" Finnick tries to say but I cut him off.

"I need to know!" I would have shouted, but only a whisper comes out and it makes me cough. Finnick gets the message though and takes the seat opposite me. He pulls out a small piece of rope from inside the pocket of his hospital robe, and absent mindedly begins to twist it into knots and loops. There's silence, like he's composing his thoughts, unsure of where to begin, but then he begins in a slow and measured voice.

"The rescue mission was a success. Some have been even calling it easy. Most though have been saying _too_ easy. We think that the Capitol meant for us to get Peeta back," says Finnick. I give him a quizzical look, urging him on, but he's not even looking at me, instead concentrating on twisting the rope into a square knot.

"On the hovercraft ride back here, Peeta just kept repeating your name. He kept saying it over and over again. The team just presumed it was what had kept him sane...the thought of you, or maybe it was looking forward to seeing you again. Either way, nobody thought anything of it." Finnick shook out the rope and began on a figure-eight knot. "The doctor's were a bit perplexed. They had all their fancy gear out for when the party landed, you know, just in case the Capitol had overdone it on the torture, if they can ever be said to under-do it, but they didn't need any of it. He was a bit malnourished they said, a bit knocked up, but other than that absolutely fine".

I realise I'm perched on the edge of the chair and my hands are gripping onto the sharp plastic so hard it's beginning to hurt. "But then you came into his room and he lost it. They had to sedate him with double the normal amount of sedative, and even then he still murmured in his sleep. Horrible, horrible things Katniss". I look up.

"Mutt," I whisper sheepishly to him. Finnick nods and hangs his head. "Yes," he whispers back, looking so ashamed that anyone would have though it was he who had called me it. His hands work loose his previous knot and he starts to make a lark-head with the frayed rope. There's silence for a moment, as if Finnick can't work up the strength to go on, but finally he speaks. "Have you ever heard of hijacking?" he asks me, avoiding my eyes.

"No," I say. Something about the look in his eyes and the dread in his voice and even that word: _hijacking_, sends shivers down my spine and conjures dread in the pit of my stomach. "Tell me".

"It's a type of fear conditioning, using the venom of tracker jackers". I shudder, thinking back to the memory of the orange bubbles and the insects crawling over my skin, all symptoms of the powerful hallucinogenic. Finnick goes on. "The venom targets the part of the brain that houses fear you see, but it's not just that. It makes that fear seem real. It's like waking up from a nightmare, but not knowing if you were actually asleep or awake, not sure if it was actually real or not. Well they brought memories to the front of Peeta's mind it seems, memories of you. Then they injected him with tracker jacker venom, just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt".

I start to feel sick as I realise what Finnick is saying. All of Peeta's memories of me, the bread, the Reaping, the Games themselves, the crawling into bed with me to hold me in his arms...not gone, just manipulated to make Peeta think that I was the enemy all along. Somehow that thought is worse than him not knowing me at all.

"Can they reverse it?" I whisper, my hands gripping the plastic so tightly that they begin to bleed.

Finnick looks so unhappy that I realise maybe he's just as fragile as I am. "We don't know. Beetee says that there's not enough data on it, because the Capitol was always so secretive about their methods of torture. But that's why Delly's in there, to try and make him remember some good thoughts, some real thoughts, about District 12 and his childhood. Nothing to do with you though, just incase" he says. I nod, feeling so utterly miserable I wish I could sink into a puddle on the floor and never get up again.

Finnick can sense that I want to be alone and he stands to leave. He's almost made it to the door when I stop him. "What happened to Annie?" He stops dead in his tracks, but his hands continue to fumble with the rope held tightly in his hands. "They tortured her, even though they knew she knew nothing. They tortured her for _fun_". Finnick looks like he's about to break down so I let him go without any more questions, not before noticing though that the rope in his hand had turned into a hangman's noose.

**xxxxxxx**

The next few days are spent in silence, with everyone tiptoeing around me, even my own family. Everyone has now presumably been told that I know about Peeta's condition and they might as well as stick a "Fragile. Do Not Break' sticker on my forehead. I feel rotten, and compounded by the absence of visitors, I'm feeling even worse that usual. I wish I could shout at them all that the best thing is really just to return to normal, but I've been strictly told not to speak lest my voice gets damaged. I'd have taken it for concern for my personal wellbeing if I hadn't know that my voice was only important to appear on TV for the rebel propos which were now filling the airwaves thanks to Beetee.

On the fifth day of confinement there's a heated discussion going on outside of my room. Although I'm pretending to be asleep, the voices make no effort to even realise that fact. I can hear the voice of the stern head doctor and then Plutarch and then the more rationalised cold voice of Coin, although I can't make out their muffled words through the thick door. The tone of their voices suggests that Plutarch and Coin want something that the doctor isn't too happy about. Before I can speculate more though the door to my room is thrown open and the three disembodied voices grow bodies and walk into it.

I press my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep, having absolutely no wish to speak to any of the three who now hover over my bed. "Can she be ready for tomorrow morning?" Coin asks and I can feel her gaze baring deep into me. I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter. The doctor lets out a sigh. "I'm not happy about this Commander", he says, "but if needs be..." he trails off.

"Needs do be," says Coin in her usual clipped voice and I hear her heels click along the tiled floor as she leaves the room. Plutarch leaves too, the sound of his wheezy breath eventually diminishing into the distance. Eventually the doctor leaves after checking my charts, and finally I am left in silence again. I'm just drifting off to sleep for real this time when I hear the door open again and then close with a click.

"Katniss" a voice says gently. I roll over to face Gale. His face somehow looks older and I can see worry etched in the dark shadows under his eyes. "I tried to come sooner", he says, "they wouldn't let me see you though". He makes his way over to me and settles on the end of the bed. "S'okay" I croak out.

"You know Coin wants you to do some filming tomorrow around the District?" he tells me. Ah, so that was what that disagreement was about earlier. Gale shakes his head looking disgruntled. "I tried to tell them no, that you weren't strong enough yet, but apparently just because I wear one of these it doesn't mean that my opinions actually count for anything". He's holding up his arm and looking angrily at the communicuff. He sighs heavily and lets his arm fall back to earth. "Catnip, do you think me made the right choice coming here? To District 13." I shrug my shoulders.

"We didn't exactly have a choice Gale" I answer hoarsely.

"Yeh, I guess not" he replies sadly. "It's just, well, I never thought I'd say it, but I miss the Hobb, and Greasy Sae. I even miss the Ripper". I can tell that he's thinking about his family and my family and all the families and places that had been destroyed in the bombings.

"Me too". I reach for his hand and for a moment it feels like everything is back to normal. It's just me and Gale against everyone else, but then the communicuff makes a bleeping sound and Gale's hand falls from my own.

"I have to go" he says, his grey Seam eyes looking down tiredly at the readout. "Love you Catnip. Get some rest before tomorrow okay". His weight shifts from the end of the bed he plants a gentle kiss between my eyes and before I can call out to him that I want him to stay, that I _need_ him to stay with me, he's gone.

**xxxxxxx**

The next day goes terribly. My stylists are disgruntled by my general lack of care for my appearance, and it's all I can do not to shout at them to re-order their priorities. I sit for the entire two hours with my hands clenched into fists in my lap, my knuckles gleaming white in a vain effort not to lash out at the people who I know are only trying to help me.

Finally I'm taken to the surface where I'm directed to the old Justice Building. I stand on the steps awkwardly, painfully aware of the number of eyes staring at me, as if I'm some caged animal in a zoo. Cressida is trying to coax me on, but I just can't get out the words that they want me to say. Before I know it I'm crying, and I can't stop. Everyone is looking at me nervously, but nobody makes a move towards me. I've never seen a group of people look so uncomfortable. They'd tried to make me look strong and powerful in their Mockingjay suit and dark makeup, but I know I just look pathetic, like a little girl who has found their mother's makeup bag.

I think at some point they realise that their promo just won't happen today, and I'm led back inside. I wonder where Haymitch is but no one's mentioned him all day. I feel a familiar stirring on anger in my stomach. He's probably drunk, passed out somewhere on a floor. Just when I needed him, he's fucked off again. This only makes me cry harder, and at some point I must pass in hysteria, because the doctors are back again and I slip into a familiar unconsciousness.

I dream again of running back through the forest to find Peeta, the orange bag banging at my hip as I crash through the trees to try and find him in time. But this time I don't end up back at the cave, but instead in front of the ruined justice building. Coin is there with Peeta and Peeta is pointing and shouting "mutt" at me. "Mutt. Mutt. Mutt". Haymitch stands off to the side laughing and throwing liquor down his throat. "Mutt!" he exclaims, and cracks up laughing like it's all some big joke. I try to turn and run, but there's a ginormous tracker jacker in my way, its wings beating breezes of hot air against me that smells of roses. It comes towards me and just before it stings me it morphs into President Snow.

I awake, sweat pouring down my face, the faint smell of roses still lingering in my nostrils. I feel myself gag and vomit into a cardboard tray someone has had the sense to leave by my bed. When did I become this person? When did I go from being Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire, to this pitiful creature who despises herself and can't even make it through the day without a complete mental breakdown. I think back to the day in the hospital with Peeta, his clammy hands wrapped around my throat. I hadn't wanted to die then, but then again I had had hope, hope for Peeta and for the war effort. But now... Now I wasn't so sure.

I slide out from under the sheets and open the door to my room, not bothering with a robe or slippers. Prim, my dear Prim. She is so grown up now, training to be a doctor. She doesn't need me anymore. I walk down the empty corridor, running my hand over the rough brick painted in thick white paint. My mother would be fine. I remind her too much of my father anyway. Even the sight of me makes her sad. I turn the corner and follow the corridor as it slopes gently downwards. Gale. He was always my shining beacon, my confidant, my best friend. But now he is Gale the warrior, the strategist and all those things he once said in the forest are coming true. I have no place in Gale's plans now. It's real now, not fun and games anymore. I've been left behind. I continue to walk on, my skin tingling from a gust of cold air as I turn around corner and another. Left, right, right, left. Haymtch would get his revenge on the Capitol. Alive I am just a person, somebody to stand up and make speeches, somebody to look pretty on the camera, somebody tangible and real. But dead, I'd be an idea, an idea that would infuse the population and cause the rebellion to rise up once and for all. A person is just flesh and bone, an idea is forever. I'm humming as I walk. The tune from _The Hanging Tree_. Right, left, left. And Peeta. Darling Peeta. His mission would finally be complete. The Capitol wouldn't have won because both of us would finally be at peace. I promised to protect him and I'm going to protect him in the only way I know how.

I'm going to kill myself.

* * *

**_So I know not a lot of Haymitch in this, but I promise the Katniss/Haymitch relationship (be it friends or something more) will emerge soon!_**

**_Please review. An aspiring writer is nothing without them._**


	3. Blood and Roses

Luckily there are no doctors in Peeta's room, and I slip in unnoticed. Peeta is sitting on top of the bed, staring intently at a sketchbook before him, a piece of black charcoal hanging limply from his fingers. I study him for a moment, trying to drink in this memory of him, probably the last I'll ever form. His eyes have returned to their piercing blue and he could almost pass for normal, that is if you hadn't known Peeta before his return. I have an overwhelming desire to step forward to him and stroke his golden hair, the way I once did whilst he lay laying in a damp dark cave, but I refrain. I've come here to do something and now that I've finally made up my mind, it has to be done.

I step forward into the room and Peeta's head whips up. His eyes narrow and turn cold, staring at me suspiciously. "The mutt has returned", he sneers, "just couldn't get enough of me could you you filthy bitch". Although I'm expecting them, his words cut me deeply and I feel like someone has just punched me in the stomach. Tears are pricking at my eyes but I banish them away with a large sniff and go to fetch the wooden chair which is standing besides Peeta's bed. I think he might attack me, but instead he sits completely still. Like a cobra poised to strike.

I pull the chair back to the door and set it under the doorknob.

"Ah I see", says Peeta, in a fake show of joviality, "you don't want your boyfriend walking in on us. Or is he you cousin? I lose track"

"He's not my boyfriend," I mumble, keeping a far distance from him.

"I beg to differ. I know you've kissed him and I know he's probably fucked you too. I bet you loved that didn't you you little bitch mutt. I bet you've probably had half the districts' men screwi-"

"Peeta!" I cut him off. His words have me reeling and I wonder whether I'm going to vomit again. "Peeta how could you ever think that?". My eyes are prickling again and I wipe away a tear with the back of my hand.

"Go on Katniss. Cry. Turn on the waterworks but it...won't...work...with...me." He punctuates each word, hurling them at me like projectiles. "You're disgusting, you know that right? You're dirty and vile and a cold blooded murder and I hate you."

"Don't. Please don't say that", I whisper, raising my hand to try and protect myself from his stinging words.

"But it's only the truth though mutt", Peeta sneers, casually chucking the charcoal down onto the bed and swinging his legs over the side. The way he stands even looks different now. He looks...menacing. His cold mocking eyes are baring into me and I wish I could avert my eyes as I watch my death walk towards me, but they're locking me in place and I can't do anything but stand and watch.

He's right in front of me now, towering over me as I back into the corner of the room. He places both arms on either side of my head, caging me in. "No one wants you Katniss", he hisses into my face. "Your mother can't bear to look at you, and your father blew himself up to be rid of you". I cover my ears with my hands, trying desperately to block his words out. Prim. Focus on Prim. I see her in my mind, the day when we gave her her goat, the look on her face as she hugged his scrawny neck and kissed him on his patchy nose.

This time I'm ready when Peeta's hands close around the soft flesh of my throat, and I make no effort to stop him. When the lights go out I can still see Prim, smiling, a blue ribbon in her hair.

**xxxxxxxx**

The air smells of pine and damp soil, like a forest after a storm. I open my eyes and the light is brilliant and I have to close them again. I try to peak out from behind my lashes again and this time the light seems a little dimmer. I wonder if this is heaven, but then I realise that it can't be. I am most definitely supposed to be in hell.

From behind my eyelids I can sense a shadow blocking the light and I tentatively open my eyes again. Hair tickles my cheeks, and gray Seam eyes are glowering down at me, only inches from my face. Haymitch opens his mouth as if to say something, but then snaps it back shut, his forefinger resting over his lips as if he is in thought.

"Do you realise...do you have even the slightest idea..." he stops again, his eyes a deadly silver. "You stupid, idiot _little_ girl".

I can't work out what he means. What did I do? My mind is sluggish and hazy but I try to think back. A talk with Finnick, a walk down a corridor, Peeta.

"Why can't you just let me die", I murmur as I finally realise I've failed. I couldn't even trust myself to protect Peeta and now all I've done is probably fuel the rage inside of his that the Capitol set alight. If Panem started it, all I've managed to do is give it fuel. I try to roll onto my side, away from the eyes that are flashing dangerously with an emotion I've never seen before, a sad and all-consuming fury. Haymitch's hand catches my chin in a vice grip though and forces me to look up at him.

"You selfish sack of shit" he snarls at me, a fleck of spittle landing on my cheek. "After everything we've done, everything _I've_ done, to keep you alive, and you want to die? You'd throw it all away just like that! You disgust me".

I've never seen Haymitch this angry before. I was used to dealing with the nonchalant Haymitch, the Haymitch who couldn't give a crap about anything but where his next drink was coming from, the Haymitch whose response to everything was a snide remark, but this Haymitch was burning with emotion, real _human_ emotion. Maybe I should feel upset that my mentor is denying both Peeta and I the desperate release we need, or maybe I should feel upset that he's berating me for exercising my own free will, but either way there are no more tears left for me to cry and I feel only numbness inside now. The war has done a pretty good job of killing everything I ever was, why couldn't they have just let Peeta finish me off for good?

Haymitch's words just don't hurt like I know they should. I don't care anymore. I'm just a shell of a person. Broken. I find Haymitch's eyes burning down into my own and I match him equally with my glare. Gray on gray. Seam on seam.

"Fuck off Haymitch" I say, and roll over onto my side.

**xxxxxxxx**

Time goes by in drips and drabs. I'm not sure how long I've been here but I can tell when morning starts (a cold piece of toast which goes uneaten) and when the night shift starts (a chunk of meat with some dried out vegetables which also goes uneaten). At some point though they realised I wasn't going to eat any of it, and they stopped bringing it. I think that was a while ago now.

I've had visitors but I usually pretend they're not there. I prefer to stare straight ahead and act like I'm the only person in the room, like I'm the only person in the whole entire world. But that doesn't stop them. Sometimes its Prim, once my mother, and twice Coin. Mostly Gale but never Haymitch.

I think it's Gale in the room now. He's been talking for what seems like hours, but I choose to fixate on a small crack which runs the length of the room instead of actually listening to him. I follow it with my eyes. Up and down, down and up. I haven't a clue what he's saying, it's just noise.

With no warning there's a resounding bang and I can't help but jump and search for the cause of it. Gale is on his feet, pulling his fist from the cracked plasterboard. "Goddamn it Katniss!". He's shouting at me now, but all I can do is stare at him blankly. "Come back!". What does he mean '_come back'_? Come back from where? I've never left and he knows that. Why is he being so utterly idiotic?

"Katniss I miss you and I've tried to help you, I really have, but there's nothing left that I can do. I can't help you if you won't help yourself!" His voice is shaky and for the first time I look at him, actually look at him, and realise he has aged dramatically. There are thin lines venturing across his forehead and a deep frown line in the middle of his brow. His lips are thin and pulled downwards and his cheeks have sunken in, giving him an almost skeletal look. But most of all I notice his eyes, normally a blue gray like a sunny winter's day, or a bright gray, like burnished steel, but now, just gray. Dead.

He catches me looking at him and strides over in angry paces to my bed, glaring down at me in much the same way Haymitch did. Why must they all be so bloody interfering? Why can't they understand that I want to be left alone?

"You know Prim's been crying. I found her the other day in the laundry room, huddled in the corner. She thinks she's lost you". This time, Gale's words sting, reaching out and touching a part of me that I was certain was dead. I feel guilty. It's a change from feeling nothing. Gale can see me reacting and he must take it as a good sign because suddenly he's talking away again, about how my mother has become even more withdrawn after my suicide attempt, how Prim has been crying nearly every day for the past two weeks, how Haymitch is sucking down liquor like there's no tomorrow.

"And me. What about me Katniss? Did you think you could just leave me here alone? It was supposed to be me and you against everyone else. What happened to that huh? What happened to us?" I feel something stir inside me again, a glut of feelings kicking me from the inside like some emotional fetus. '_Us_'. The word lashes at me again and I let out an involuntary whimper. Gale hears it and clings to my sudden emotion, perhaps he's afraid that if he doesn't crack through my broken exterior now he never will.

"I need you Katniss, don't you see that? Everyone needs you, but right now all you're doing is hurting the people who care most about you". Is that true? Am I really hurting people? I thought that killing myself was the answer, but according to Gale all I've done is made things worse.

"I'm sorry" I mumble into the sheets, suddenly too ashamed to look at him. I expect more anger and rage but instead, to my surprise, the strained look on his face crumbles and relief shines through and he almost looks like the Gale of old again. "I'm sorry" I repeat again and then again, and before I know it I'm crying and Gale has wrapped his arms tightly around me. I clutch at the front of his shirt, twisting the material around in my fingers. "I'm sorry" I continue to whisper between sobs into his chest. His hand finds the back of my head and his fingers slide between my hair, gently caressing my skin. "It's okay, shhh", he murmurs as he places his chin on top of my head.

I want to stay here with him forever. I feel so safe in the warm cocoon of his arms, but all too soon he is pulling away and placing his hands on my shoulders.

"Katniss, promise me you won't do something like that again". His eyes are shining now, and I draw strength from them. I nod. "I want to hear you say it. Say 'yes, I promise'."

"Yes Gale, I promise".

He lets out a breathe I didn't even know he was holding and draws me close again.

**xxxxxxxx**

Over the next few days Gale and Prim both come to see me. They explain that all of the Districts have now rebelled against the Capitol, even 2, which happened the week after my failed suicide attempt. Apparently no one knows about my attempt, and most people think I have been in solitary confinement after a case of mono. It's only those high up in Command who have any idea.

One day Gale brings along a map of Panem and we lie it across my lap. He begins to explain the attack plan on the Capitol: how it will work, how many soldiers they'll be flying in, how the Capitol defence systems work. As he explains, I begin to grow more and more interested, butting in with questions and enquiries, even to the point of questioning certain bits of the plan. I realise that I no longer feel as numb. Of course I have my days, but more often that not I feel the fire inside me growing again and each day it gets bigger. Gale's dedication to the plan and Prim's compassion for the Districts, and especially the news of further Capitol bombings only serve to further kindle the flames.

The doctors finally allow me out of bed, and then out of the ward and I make frequent trips down to Control to see how the plans are coming along, always with Gale at my side. Beetee smiles at me happily and takes me down to show me the new weapons he has developed. Plutarch too gives me a warm hug when I first venture into the control room, although Coin remains cool and detached, giving me a curt "welcome back" before turning back to her work. I don't see Haymitch and I don't ask. I feel a pang of guilt for what I must have put him through. He's saved me twice now through two Games and yet I tried to throw it all away. But marbled through my guilt is also anger and resentment. He's not my father and he can't tell me what to do and I begrudge him for even trying.

It's a Thursday afternoon when Coin pulls me over to the side of the room. Gale glances at me warily but makes no move to interfere. Plutarch too is hovering around, pretending to check off locations on the giant wall map, but I know that he's actually listening into the conversation though.

"Gale told me your idea about setting off the pods with the cars. I thought it was pretty good", says Coin. She looks awkward and the compliment which has just come from between her thin lips seems forced, but I appreciate the effort nonetheless. "Of course, at some point the Capitol will realise what we're doing and let off the pods manually, but it's a decent start". I nod and shrug my shoulders, unsure of what the appropriate reaction is.

We both stand there awkward for a second, but Coin shakes it off. "You're doctors tell me that you're feeling much better now." She talks as if I've been struck down by a nasty cold, rather than a failed suicide attempt, but I'm not going to bring up that fact and neither is she by the sounds of it.

"Yes, I think so", I answer. Coin looks at me in thought, studying me. I can almost hear the cogs inside her head whirring.

"I want you to come to the Capitol", she says finally, "only if you feel up to it of course". She adds the last bit after a moments hesitation. I realise that I don't really have much choice in the matter, even if she chose to phrase it in a way which made it sound like I did.

"I do" and I actually really do feel up to it. I want to be doing something, something real to help, not just filming stupid propos and being covered in makeup to appear in front of cameras, which is why a surge of anger flashes through me when she says:

"of course, you'll only be on the side-lines. You'll take your bow and fire off a few arrows at some mock pods, we'll air it to the populace and then move you back to base when the fighting begins".

I grit my teeth. "I want to help. Actually help, not just pretend to wield a bow at some mutts which aren't even real".

"This will help Katniss, the nation will see your face, see you well and strong after your...delayed absence. They'll draw strength from it".

I flick my eyes to Gale standing behind Coin's shoulder. His eyes catches my own but then he looks away and I know that he's hearing everything.

"You know I'm one of the best shots with a bow. You know I can help on the front line" I plead, desperate for her to realise that I'm not just a body to be trussed up in a black and white suit and paraded on TV for the whole populace to see. Coin nods in mock understanding but she doesn't budge.

"I am aware, but you're not the only one with a good shot. We've already assembled a team of the best that we're calling the 'Star Squad'." I open my mouth to complain but she speaks again, counteracting my obvious disagreement. "I will allow you to train with them if you obtain the appropriate clearance from your doctors. I will also allow you to continue to attend Control meetings and weapon briefings. But you will be available to Cressida and your stylists at all times, and I shall expect you to record all promos as the team sees fit. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal" I hiss behind gritted teeth.

**xxxxxxx**

"Katniss, can you crouch down a little...that's it. Now aim the bow towards the lens. That's perfect. And now just fire into the air, towards that 'purple wigs' sign. Okay, we've got it. Cut!".

Cressida has been shouting things like this all morning and I'm beginning to get a hot and sticky inside my mockingjay suit. With a bow in my hand though I finally feel like I'm complete, although my complete self has been doing absolutely bloody nothing apart from shooting at thin air all day.

The camera crew are bent over studying the footage they've just captured and I take this moment to take a swig of water from my bottle. We've been on the outskirts of the Capitol for two days now. As Coin promised, I've been allowed to sit in on the war meetings, but apart from that I might as well be back in District 13 for all the help I've been. I'm not even speaking to Gale after he actually siding with Coin.

"We've got to keep you safe Katniss", he had said to me when I'd gone to complain to him that day in the control room.

"I wish you'd all stop treating me like a little kid" I yelled at him. Could no one see the logic? I'd made it through not one, but _two_ Hunger Games, and yet they still insisted on treating me like an innocent naive child who'd never done a thing for herself before.

"We're only trying to protect you" Gale had answered back, his face flushed.

"No! You're trying to stifle me!". I stormed off.

We still haven't made up.

I can see him now discussing something with Beetee, bending over a table that someone has set up. I groan at the thought of spending the rest of the day shooting fake arrows at fake targets instead of actually doing something useful like the two of them.

Cressida is shouting at me again to get back into the position. Apparently the whole last shot needs to be re-done, something about the lighting not being quite right. I'm just taking position when I'm thrown backwards onto the ground. Something heavy is on top of me and I realise it's Finnick.

"Fin, what the hell?" I yell at him, but I can see from the look in his eyes something is wrong. Everything is silent for a moment, and I hear a gust of wind as its winds it way around the tall tower blocks, whistling eerily...and then all hell breaks lose.

Finnick struggles off me and quickly helps me up and I look around at a scene of carnage. At least twenty people are lying on the floor. Some are writhing in pain, others are clearly dead. Long thick black spikes stick from their bodies like grotesque new limbs and I can't help but freeze on the spot in horror. I almost vomit when I notice Cressida, her arm outstretched to direct me into position, a black barb piercing her left eye.

"An unmapped pod", Finnick is trying to tell me breathlessly. "Didn't realise...just went off...". Suddenly Boggs and Gale are there pushing me into a narrow alleyway between buildings. They're shoving a gun into my hands and shouting urgently at other people still remaining on the street.

"Everdeen, you're in the rotation", Boggs is commanding me. "You know how to use that thing?" he asks, pointing to the gun. I nod hurriedly in case he decides to change his mind.

"Boggs, are you sure about this? If the Capitol finds her..." Gale is speaking but Boggs cuts him off.

"Three of our best shots are dead or dying and I can't afford to play around with useless promo's anymore. The girl is with us now".

I want to throw my arms around Boggs and hug him but instead I sheepishly grin, hoping no one will see me. This is what I've wanted all along. Gale doesn't look best pleased but he's been trained well enough not to argue with his Captain. "Yes Sir" is all he can manage.

"Move out!" Boggs is shouting, and we're surrounded by the remaining Star Squad and within moments we're moving down the street away from the carnage behind us.

And that's where everything begins to go wrong.

**xxxxxxxx**

The days pass by in a blur. I remember the strange black wave of tar which crashes towards us, and hiding out in abandoned apartments of Capitol citizens. I remember Boggs dying in my arms, his blood soaking the material of my trousers a rusty brown. I remember the separate announcements from the Capitol and the rebels that I have finally met my untimely doom. I remember wondering if Haymitch was finally happy for turning me into the undying idea that he had always wanted. I remember dark tunnels and whispered conversations. I remember Messalla's flesh melting off him like candle wax. I remember Jackson and Leeg staying behind to buy us more time from the rose-smelling mutts.

I remember Finnick falling to his death and I remember the familiar numbness that crept through my chest afterwards. I remember shooting a woman straight through the heart and not feeling a thing. I remember a woman who looked just like a cat. I remember the terrified screams of Capitol citizens. I remember being separated from Gale by a street which opened up to hell itself.

I remember running and running and running some more. I remember an all-consuming hatred, the only thing left for me to feel. I remember a mansion and the cloying scent of roses and blood. I remember a bomb and I remember carnage.

I remember Prim rushing forth to help. I remember trying to shout her name over the ruckus. I remember her turning to face me, a half-smile just reaching her blue eyes, a hand raised in silent greeting.

I remember the second bomb going off.

I remember dying.


	4. Home

There's a new bracelet around my risk now with the words "mentally disorientated" stamped onto it in large block letters, although I can easily slide it off my wrist if I want to. I've become painfully thin, so much so that it would hurt to look at myself, if I could still hurt at all. But I can't. Not since they turned my little sister into a human torch.

I vaguely remember shooting Coin: the slow and steady breath before the bow string thrummed, the soft whistle of air as the arrow flew straight and true, the surprised look in the President's green eyes, and the clamor of people that came afterwards. I've been in this room now for weeks? Months? Years? I don't know.

They give me morphling for my physical pain. I tried to stockpile it, hoping to kill myself in one large overdose, but I failed at that, like I fail at everything: eventually the pain and cravings simply became too much, and anyway, I know they're watching me always, like a silent ghost who never leaves my side.

I decide to let myself starve to death instead. They bring food but I don't look at it, instead I just lie on the thin mattress on the rusting cot staring up at the ceiling. I don't attempt to touch even the water they bring me either. At some point I must have become so weak I can't even take the morphling they leave me. I feel my grip on reality shifting and at some point I actually begin to feel a warmth inside, melting away at the ice in my chest. It's then that I know I'm dying. _Truly_ dying this time. I even manage to smile; I'll be seeing Prim and Father again very soon and it's the best thought I've had for years.

But then the warm feeling disappears and it's as if the ice casing that was slowly melting away has snapped back shut. Somebody's standing over me. They're talking to me and they say something like 'home', but I don't understand. I shot the President. They're going to kill me for it. _Why can't they just do it already?_ I wait for the somebody to go away but they don't. Instead I feel myself becoming weightless. I think somebody wraps a jacket around my shoulders, because before I know it there's a gust of frigid air on my bare skin and I realise that I must be outside. I inhale deeply, glad to be rid of the smell of the dank and stale room.

Somebody has placed me into a seat. I'm so weak that I practically fall off it but then arms are strapping me into place. I realise that we're in a hovercraft as I hear and feel the shudder of the engines beneath me and I wonder where they're taking me to execute me. I heard the word 'home'. Maybe they're taking me back to District 12, to kill me off in the place I was born, in the place the rebellion was raised, a final kick in the teeth. I won't scream though and I won't be scared. I won't give them that satisfaction. I welcome death.

But then something unexpected happens. A morsel of food is placed into my hands. I look down and it's a sandwich. The bread is white and I frown because white bread is only for the Capitol citizens, not for condemned criminals on the way to their death. There's a voice commanding me to eat it but I can't, I can only stare at it, trying to work out what on earth it means. "_Eat it_" I hear again. I had vowed not to end my hunger strike until I was dead, but seeing as I am on the way to my death anyway, there's probably no harm in just a small bite.

I'm almost too weak to lift up my arm, but eventually I've managed to eat half of the sandwich, taking small tiny bites and nibbling at each until all that's left in my mouth is mush. My stomach hurts as I swallow from weeks of eating nothing, but always someone is coaxing the food to my mouth, urging me to finish. I do so, after what seems like hours, and surprisingly I start to feel better. Only slightly though.

"That wasn't so hard was it sweetheart?" a voice opposite me says. Somewhere off in the back of my mind I recognise the voice, deep and throaty, almost a growl.

Sweetheart. He called me _sweetheart_.

"Haymitch?" I question when the realisation dawns on me. I look across to find that it is my mentor who now sits opposite me. His blonde hair is longer than I remember and his cheeks look more gaunt, but for once his eyes look alive and I wonder when it was he'd last had a drink.

"That's right sweetheart" he growls. I notice that Plutarch too is sitting opposite from me and he's positively beaming from ear to ear.

"You must have a million questions!" Plutarch exclaims. I don't. I just want to sleep. But he proceeds to tell me about my trial and my subsequent acquittal anyway. Haymitch doesn't say a word through the entire duration of Plutarch's monologue. I think that he might have gone to sleep, but when I look at him his blue eyes are staring at me, half-narrowed, watching me and dare I say it, waiting. Waiting for me to what though? Fall apart? Crumble? _It's too late_, I want to tell him. _That already happened_, and there's no getting better this time.

We land briefly in District 3 to drop off Plutarch and then carry on to District 12 in silence.

"Haymitch" I say finally, once we're back amongst the clouds. "Why are you going back? To District 12 I mean?"

"They can't seem to find a place for me in the Capitol either" he says after a pause. But this doesn't sit right. Haymitch didn't kill anyone in the rebellion. There's no reason for him to go back the wasteland that he used to call home. Why would he go back to somewhere that holds so many painful memories for him?

Then it hits me.

"You have to look after me, don't you? As my mentor?" He shrugs.

"It was a condition of your release, that you be supervised and kept under watch. I volunteered", he sneers, pulling a bag out from beneath his seat and taking out a large liquor bottle from it.

"They're not coming back are they. My mother? Gale? Peeta?"

Haymitch takes a large swipe from the bottle, wiping his hand across the back of his mouth. He shakes his head. "No sweetheart, no they're not".

I finally understand. They've all abandoned me. I finally became too messed up, too broken for them. They don't want me anymore. "When you say you volunteered..."

"I mean that they said either I take you or they would cut off the good stuff". He raises the bottle into the air, as if he were toasting to the fact. So not even Haymitch wanted me then, he was just too scared to live his life away from the bottom of a bottle. I could cry, but I'm too exhausted. At some point I fall asleep because I can feel myself being lifted again. I open my eyes when I feel a pinprick touch on my cheek like a kiss. It's snowing.

We've landed on the green of the Victors Village, and I realise with a twinge of embarrassment that it's Haymitch whose carrying me across the lawn to a house. My house. There are no lights on in the windows and suddenly I don't want to go inside. It's dead and they're dead. Everybody's dead because of me.

I clutch tightly to Haymitch's shirt, mentally pleading for him not to walk up the front steps, not to open the front door, not to leave. But he does though. He sets me on the sofa and I hear him pick up his bag of liquor, the bottles clinking softly together, the sound traveling through the empty rooms of the house. "Well, see you tomorrow" he says and walks out of the door, closing it behind him.

"I doubt it" I whisper to the empty house.

I vaguely notice when the light starts shining in through the window, casting shadows on the floor. I haven't moved all night. I might have slept but I don't think I did. I wonder that maybe I should fix myself some food, but I doubt there'd be anything here anyway, and even more importantly, I don't want to. I don't want to make food, and pretend to care about living. I just want to hole away here. I'm alive, but I might as well be dead.

I remember once when I was little, when Prim was still crawling, that Father and I found a bird on the floor. As I cradled her in my hands Father explained to me how her wing was broken, how she had fallen from the tree. He explained how she'd probably left a nest up there and I recall how sad I was, at the thought that the baby birds might never have a mother. So I climbed the tree, scurried to the branch with the nest, and placed the eggs delicately in my jacket pocket. When we got them home I remember Mother being angry, but Dad gave her a kiss and she fetched us an old cardboard box and smiled. My Father warned me that they might not survive, but still I watched and waited, never giving up hope. When the first egg cracked and the new born chick crawled out covered in a slimy goo I was so excited that I accidentally smashed my Mother's vase running round in joy. It took less than a day for them all to hatch...except one. Father said that it was probably dead, but I didn't give up. I knew that the little bird was in there, struggling to get out. But still after waiting it still hadn't hatched, and so I decided that all it needed was some help. So I picked off the shell and split open the egg to find a half formed chick inside, covered in it's yellow membrane. I vomited all over my Mother's rug.

That's what I am. I am the chick who never hatched. My shell's intact but I'm not alive inside, and all the hope in the world won't change that fact.

There's an old shawl at my feet and I cover myself in it, but can't suppress the stifled wail that worms it way out of my throat when I realise that the blanket was Prim's. Her smell still lingers on it and I can't work out whether to cling on to it for dear life or to throw it away from me in horror. My agony is burning me from the inside out and it doesn't dull once. I was the girl on fire, but the fire consumed me.

I decide to keep the blanket. I draw it up over my face and inhale her smell deeply. Goats milk. Peppermint. Honeysuckle. I fall asleep dreaming of Prim but then she bursts into flames and she's screaming so loudly that the sound is shattering all of my bones. I wake and it's dark again outside and I realise that it's me screaming. Alone. The house looms cold and quiet and empty and I sob to myself, clutching at the faded red blanket.

Sleep comes again and this time it's Gale I dream of. He's setting traps in the woods but he's not saying a word. I follow him but not once does he turn around, not once does he acknowledge my presence. Finally though he does turn and I shout to him, rushing forward to embrace him. But my leg catches in one of his snares and it pulls me into the air. I'm trapped and Gale moves towards me like he would a rabbit in a trap, a gleaming knife in his hand.

I wake again screaming and I must have fallen onto the floor at some point because I'm lying on the hard wood and I can feel the cold seeping through my bones. I don't get up though. I _can't_ get up.

It goes on like this for days. I shiver, I cry, I sleep, I scream and I cry some more. Sometimes it's light outside the window, and sometimes it's dark. I've completely lost track of the day and night. I sleep when I want to, and when I'm not sleeping I lie still on the floor, tracing over the knots and grain in the dark wood with my dirty fingernail.

At some point Peeta walks into the room and he crouches down beside me, drawing a lock of hair behind my ear. He looks at me with sad eyes but then reaches down to take my chin in his hands. And then he's kissing me and my mouth opens for him, our tongues flittering together like mating birds. But then his teeth are on my tongue and there's blood. He's biting off my tongue and I'm struggling and thrashing in his grasp but he's too strong. I fly awake with the taste of metallic salty blood filling my mouth and I realise I've bitten my own tongue. But this time I'm not alone when I awaken. Somebody's hands are on my face, prying apart my clenched jaw and letting out a string of profanities and curses above my head. I open my eyes and see Haymitch silhouetted by the moonlight shining in through the window.

"Bloody hell sweetheart", he says and then I'm in his arms again, but this time I'm too weak to even feel embarrassed. He's taking me up the stairs and I'm terrified that I'll smell the rose which I know is sitting in my bedroom like an unwelcome stranger, but I don't, and instead he's depositing me on the lid of the toilet in the bathroom, and turning on the faucets. The soft gurgle of the water is comforting and I rest my head against the wall, intending to fall back into the clutches of unconsciousness but Haymitch is there shaking my shoulder.

"No you don't, stay with me now". He's on his knees in front of me, unlacing my boots and throwing them to one side. When he begins to pull down my trousers I stiffen and try to protest but he stops me.

"Sweetheart, your body's old news to me and plus you look like absolute shit".

I don't have the strength to protest further but my eyes fly open when he tries to pry the red blanket from my finger tips. "It's Prims" is all I can manage to choke out but Haymitch nods in understanding, his face sincere.

"Don't worry", he says, "it'll be right over here. I promise". He's looking at me closely now, straight into my eyes, but he makes no further move to pull the blanket away from me. Finally I nod and loosen my grasp. Haymitch folds it up with deft hands and places it to one side. Then he's pulling my t-shirt over my head, frowning at the state of my patchwork skin of shiny burns and mottled pink scarring. He lifts me up ever so gently as if I were no more than a doll, and carefully lowers me into the scented bath water.

I let him scrub me down and wash my hair and then pull me out of the water and towel me dry, dabbing over my scars so as not to hurt me. I don't know where he found them but my old pajamas are in his hands and he helps me into them. I'm in his arms again straight away and he's whisking me to the kitchen and setting me gently back down onto the sofa. I can hear the clank of pans and china clinking together and I drift off, waking again to find Haymitch pulling me up to a sitting position and deposition a plate of chicken and pasta into my lap.

"Eat" he commands, handing me a silver fork from the draw.

"Not hungry" I mumble, although my stomach betrays me by giving a loud timely rumble. Haymitch raises an eyebrow.

"Eat" he says again, his voice stern. I shake my head, wanting nothing but to go back to my restless sleep, but he obviously has different ideas as his hand catches my chin and he draws close. "You will eat or I will force you to eat" he drawls, his eyes glinting dangerously. I stare back at him defiantly, challenging him. With lightening fast movements his hand moves up my face, clenching my nose and cutting off my airway. There's nothing I can do but open my mouth to draw breath, but then he's shoving food into my mouth and placing a hand over my throat and applying pressure, forcing me to swallow. The action brings stinging tears to my eyes. "Do I have to warn you again?" he says with menace in his voice once I finally manage to swallow the food.

"No" I choke and take the fork from his grasp, spearing individual spirals of the pasta with it and sliding them in my mouth. I chew as slowly as I can manage, but Haymitch refuses to move until the plate is cleared. He's taken it from my grasp and is turning away from me when I speak.

"I thought you didn't care".

He turns back towards me sneering. "What impression gave you that sweetheart?"

"You never cared. About me. It was always Peeta. You don't even like me" I say quietly. Something changes in his expression, but then his face snaps back to its 'amusement-with-a-hint-of-irritation' expression.

"I've never said I don't like you sweetheart. You're just a pain in the ass sometimes". He turns back around and I hear the water from the sink. "Did I say sometimes?" he calls over his shoulder "I meant all the time". Right now the old Katniss would be giving him stick back, berating him over his own pain-in-the-ass mannerisms: the drinking, the snide comments, the general lack of caring for anyone but his own self, but the new Katniss, the one that's hollow inside like a carved out pumpkin, just can't muster the energy to even care.

The sound of water is shut off and Haymitch is back. "I expect you to start taking better care of yourself" he lectures and there's a bottle of gin in his hand. I don't know where he got it from because I'm sure that we never kept any in the house, but I don't question him further. He makes his way out into the hall and with a start I realise he's leaving.

"I'll be back tomorrow", he calls over his shoulder. Right, because I've heard that before. Once again I realise, I don't want him to go. Even if it is grumpy old Haymitch, he's better than the cold loneliness when it's just me in the baron house with no one but my agony for company. I want to call out to him. "Stay" I want to say, to beg, to plead. "Please stay with me. I don't want to be alone". But the front door has opened and closed before I can even open my mouth. The silence stretches out and becomes heavy and I fall asleep under it, using it like a blanket.

Tonight I dream of sitting in a bath, but the bath is filled with blood and I can't do anything except sit and watch the drops of red bead themselves on my skin. I wake up with a gasp, half expecting to find myself drenched with blood, but instead it's just sweat that has settled in a cold sheen over my forehead and runs down my back in rivets. My eyes do a quick scan of the room and I almost jump out of my seat when I see none other than Haymitch Abernathy sitting with an amused expression on his face in the chair across from the empty fireplace.

"What the hell Haymitch" I grumble. In the light of day my fears from last night of being left alone seem irrational, and now I want nothing more than for Haymitch and his amused face to get right up and walk out of the door and leave me be.

"Morning sunshine. Well aren't you just the picture of radiance today" he smirks, taking a swig from a bottle of vodka.

"What'reyoudoinhere?" my words come out in a long slur as I mash my head back down into the pillows of the sofa.

"I'm currently sitting in this chair and reflecting on how wonderful the world is". Smug bastard.

"_Why_ are you here Haymitch", I spit back angrily. He takes another deep swig from the bottle and sets it down on the table with a clatter, making his way into the kitchen and opening and closing doors with a bang.

"Just makin' sure you're not dead sweetheart'.

"One can only dream" I mutter into the pillows. Haymitch hears but pretends that he doesn't.

"You eaten today?"he asks but I say nothing in response, wishing he'd just leave me alone. "Want a repeat of yesterday do you?" Still no response. I can feel his eyes boring into the top of my skull and the banging stops. "You know this isn't a fucking picnic for me sweetheart. Why are you making this so much harder than it has to be?". I raise my head from the sofa, glaring at him furiously.

"'_Harder than it has to be_?' You think this is _easy_? Well fuck you Haymitch you ignorant fool. Everyone is dead because of me".

"Hate to rain on your pity parade sweetheart but a lot of people aren't dead, they're just not here".

I'm suddenly choking down my rage in a vain attempt not to strangle him."So why the fuck are you Haymitch. Why are _you_ here? Why can't you just leave me alone?!" I'm yelling now but I don't care, it feels so good to let it rip out of me like this, like unleashing a beast that I thought was asleep.

"You think I _want_ to be here? Well I've got news for you kiddo...I don't. You think I want to come in here to find you pretty much dead on the floor like some kind of human skeleton? The answer is no sweetheart, no I don't. I'm here for the liquor and the liquor only, so eat some fucking food, take a bath once in a while, and I see no reason why we should have to bother each other again". He's angry now, really angry. The bowl that he slams down onto the table in front of me almost shatters and the cereal packet is crunched to a cardboard pulp in his fist.

We're both breathing heavily, staring at each other angrily. I wish I had my bow with me now so I could shoot him through the head but I don't know what's happened to it so I do my best to picture it instead. Careless, heartless, fucking bastard. He downs the rest of the vodka in the bottle and tosses it into the empty fireplace and walks out. The front door slams behind him. The broken glass glitters amongst old bits of coal and dust and I can't help but stare at it long after he's gone, watching it catch the sun rays that creep in through the windows sending shards of light flying around the room.

The sun is finally disappearing from the sky when a noise cuts through the silence with a shrill ring. The phone. I'd almost forgotten we even had one. Such things were a luxury only reserved for the rich and powerful, those who could afford to spend their days talking about nothing. Of course, they had insisted on putting them into the victors houses, despite the fact that no one in the rest of the District had one. Who they expected us to call I don't know, maybe each other, but I knew that it wasn't Peeta calling from the empty house next door, and I was damned sure it wasn't Haymitch. I don't pick up the phone to find out though, instead letting it ring until it stops suddenly. But then it's ringing again, and again, but still I don't answer it. Whoever it is I don't want to speak to.

Finally the squawking phone is silent and I drift off into a restless sleep, my nerves never quite settling themselves. I wake feeling tired and numb, but with a pressing urge to urinate. I drag myself off the sofa to the bathroom and for the first time realise how cold the house is. I contemplate making a fire but that would require wood, which would require a trip outside, which I'm not willing to do. Instead I make my way back to the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards under the sink to try and find what Haymitch had successfully managed to...alcohol.

I'm met with rolls of bandages, and glass jars full of herbs, tubs of ointment and a large swathe of rags and scraps of cloth. These objects belong to my mother, and Prim, but not me. A shiver runs down my spine and I sweep everything aside with my hand, settling down on my knees to root around the back of the shelf. I'm about to consign myself to failure, thinking maybe that Haymitch had simply brought the bottle over from his own house, when my hand brushes against cold glass. I draw it out to claim my find, which is, as I had hoped, some kind of liquor.

I sink to the floor with my legs curled underneath me and yank at the stiff top. At first it won't budge, but then I pull so hard that the top comes off with a screech and I nearly spill the contents all over the floor. The smell of liquor hits me hard and makes my eyes water but I take a deep breathe and take a large swig, immediately spitting it out all over the floor. My eyes are burning and I can't help it as I erupt in a coughing fit.

I've tried alcohol before. I remember my father giving me a thimble of brandy once when I was much younger, that was when we were less poor and it was less expensive, but I don't remember there ever being alcohol in the house since that time. I frown at the bottle in my hand and wonder where it came from. Of course I'd sampled my fair share of wines from the various Districts: the sweet fruity red from 11, the bitter white from 2, and the bubbly stuff from 5 which went straight to my head. But that was always no more than half a glass at most and always watered down with some kind of clouded juice.

This though, this white foul smelling spirit, was something I left exclusively to Haymitch and the drunks of the land. I snort. Maybe I'll become one of them. Haymitch mark 2.0. I wonder what people will say about me, but then again, I don't really care. I raise the bottle to my lips and this time take a smaller sip, letting the liquid burn a path down my throat and into my stomach. The taste is revolting but I force more down, and slowly the cold isn't so cold anymore, and my pain doesn't hurt so much.

I can see why Haymitch likes this stuff.

I'm woozy as I try to pick myself off the floor. I stand but immediately fall into the kitchen cabinet, banging my protruding hip bone against the cold marble. I barely feel it though and stagger back towards the sofa, collapsing into it and nursing the bottle against my chest. My eyes are heavy, like lead, and they droop shut almost immediately. The harsh spirit drags me under and for the first time in what seems like an eternity, I don't dream.

It's light when I wake and I'm immediately pushing myself off the sofa with a groan and running towards the bathroom. I just make it in time to spew the contents of my stomach forth into the toilet bowl, realising that it's mostly just a yellowish bile coming out of me. I fall back to the floor when I'm finally just retching up nothing and let my head drop onto the toilet seat. My head is pounding and my stomach feels like it's on fire. How Haymitch does this every single morning I'll never know.

Now with the contents of my stomach sitting marinading in the toilet bowl, I feel completely empty and I realise that the last thing I've eaten was the pasta that Haymitch forced on me in his fit of benevolence. Using the cold rim of the toilet I manage to pull myself up and head back to the kitchen where the light practically blinds me. I blindly root around through draws until I find some sort of canned good which I pry open and eat with my hands, shoveling bits of meat and gravy down my throat. _What would Effie_ _think,_ I wonder in amusement to myself.

I think I might be sick again, and I hurry back to the bathroom but miraculously the food settles and the pounding in my head marginally abates to a dull throb. Looking down I realise that I'm still in my pajamas, now filthy, covered in sick and alcohol and spilt food. I smell. I lift up my arm to stiff myself. I really smell. It actually makes me gag so that I'm wrenching the top over my head and pulling off my trousers so that I'm standing naked in the middle of the hallway. My clothes I kick into a soiled heap in the corner. It's then that I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I can't help but gasp as I draw closer, my hand reaching out to touch my reflection, not quite believing that the girl in the mirror is me.

I must have lost at least twenty pounds of muscle and flesh. I can see my ribs through my chest and my shoulders are sharp jagged angles. My yellow skin clings to the bones and my eyes look too big for my sunken face which has become almost skeletal. I notice with a start that my long dark tresses have begun to thin and as if in confirmation I reach a hand to my skull and pull away with a clump of hair, watching as the girl in front of me does the same with wide and startled eyes. But what's even more disturbing is the state of my burnt skin which is angry and inflamed in places, stretched too tight so that I can see the white bone threatening to break through the flesh.

This time when I vomit, I don't make it to the bathroom. The contents of my canned lunch are suddenly upended over the hallway floor and my bare feet, bits of brown meats lodging themselves between my toes. I sink to the floor and bring my bony knees up, wrapping my arms around myself in a hopeless effort to keep myself from falling apart. My naked body prickles in the cold and I begin to shake, but not just from the cold gust of november wind which sneaks its way around the door frame.

Somewhere off in the distance I can hear the shrill tone of the phone ringing again, but I ignore it and eventually it stops. My mind drifts back to the day when all of this began. The Reaping. It seems like a lifetime ago now, barely a half-remembered dream. Images in my mind are hazy: a stage, the fluttering of flags, two glass bowls glinting in the sunlight. But it's the feelings that are still as fresh as if it happened yesterday: the nervous flutter in my belly as we were herded into pens to wait like sheep for a name to be called, the moment where my heart dropped through the floor when I heard the name 'Primrose Everdeen' called, the rage and madness that overcame me, and the bitter taste of injustice which settled in my mouth, as I stepped forward to take her place.

I bring one of my hands up to my face, staring at it intently whilst the other remains securely wrapped around my knees. This was a hand that has nursed and cared for and hunted and caressed and wiped away tears, and killed. This was a hand that held a bow as if it were a part of its own anatomy. This was a strong hand. Now I stare at the skeletal thing in front of me, calluses hard on my dirty palm, jagged with white scars and broken flesh.

It wasn't the Games that killed me I don't think, or Finnick's death, or Prim's. I think, no _I know_, it was the day that I stopped believing in life and instead began to believe that I was only a piece in a large game, a piece easily disposed of and easily replaced. The day of the Reaping. Of course, the proceeding events slowly whittled away at the very essence of who I was, and maybe if I'd have been left in peace after the first Games I might have survived. But then came the Quarter Quell and Coin and ultimately the demise of the person who was the reason for everything in the first place. The irony is almost painful.

And now there's nothing left. District 12 is just a shadow of what it once was. Before it was dirty and decayed, but it was mine and that was what mattered. But now I'm alone in this strange house, abandoned by the boy I thought I loved, or at least thought that I _could_ have loved. Not even my own flesh and blood could stand by me anymore and the one person who came back with me, the one person that has suffered alongside me, has only done so for something as simple as a bottle of gin.

It's finally time that I faced the cold harsh truth: this is me. I am Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old. I live in what used to be District 12. I helped overthrow the Capitol. I killed the President. I love my little sister more than anything. My little sister is dead. I'm alone in this world. I'm broken. I'm never going to get better.

I crawl naked back through to the living room, splinters of wood digging into my knees and hands. I reach the fireplace, fishing through the black ash with hurried hands, staining my brittle skin a dark shade of gray. The colour of a corpse. My fist closes around the shard of broken glass and it breaks the skin, a flash of scarlet blood appearing amidst the dirt and dust. It beads and then breaks, like a brilliant red flower opening to the sun. It's beautiful.

I take the shard of bloody crystal between my fingers and drag it across a painfully thin wrist, enjoying the sensation of the pain leaving my body. I can't stop myself as I drag it back and forth and watch in a fascinated wonder as a red river runs and puddles beneath me in a lake of blood. I smile and I finally feel happy.

It's over. They can't use me anymore.


	5. Awakening

I wake up in a bed that isn't my own.

I try to sit up but the effort hurts and I slump back down amongst the pillows. Everything is tender and aching and my head is swimming like I've just been tipped upside down and shaken by my feet. I can make out bits of the room from where I lie in my awkward position. Granted, it's similar to my own, but the dimensions are slightly off, and the bed has been moved to the far side of the room away from the windows. There's no vanity either, just a couple of solid pine wardrobes which adorn one wall with no other decoration. Even the bed feels different, the sheets more scratchy against my bare skin.

I open my mouth to try to shout out, to call someone and ask them where am I, but all that comes out is a dry croak and I realise I'm parched, my tongue just a dry lump of meat in my mouth. I try again to sit up to venture in search of water but once again I'm just too weak to push myself up. I glance around the room again and notice that somebody's left a glass of water sitting on the bedside table next to me.

I swing an arm out of the covers to grab at it, but my co-ordination is all wrong and I end up catching the glass with my hand. It falls to the floor with a crash, water spilling into the cracks between the floorboards. Immediately there's a noise from below, and then the thundering sound of footsteps on the stairs. The door swings open and slams into the wall behind.

Haymitch stands in the door way, and for some reason there's a knife in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. He looks from me to the now empty glass on the floor and back to me again. He retreats from the room and I hear the sound of water coming from what I presume is a bathroom next door, because then he's back with a fresh glass, minus the bread and knife. He moves around to the side of the bed and sets the glass down. He's looking at me through sad gray eyes and there's not a hint of sarcasm or amusement playing across his face.

He bends down towards me, his arms extended, and I think he's going to hug me. How distinctly un-Haymitch like I think to myself, but then his arms are under mine and he's hoisting me into a sitting position. He leans back and hands me the glass, only removing his hands when mine are firmly grasped around the cold surface. I take a small sip and it's like heaven as the cool water quenches my thirst. I gulp down the whole glass, whilst Haymitch stands to my side and says nothing, just watches me with a wary expression, his stance looking like he's ready to pounce at any moment.

As soon as I've finished he takes the glass from me and sets it down again in silence. We're both looking at each other, neither of us willing to speak first. I thought perhaps Haymitch would be angry again, and I'm surprised he hasn't commenced his usual string of profanities yet, but he just looks sad and old, in his crumpled shirt and dirty trousers. One of his socks as a hole in and a long toe pokes out from it.

He moves to a chair thats sits on one side of the room, blankets thrown over it in a haphazard fashion. There's a pillow on the seat as well, and I wonder if Haymitch has slept here. It would explain his bedraggled look at least, but the Haymitch I know just wouldn't do that. But then... here he is.

He passes a hand over his eyes and drags it into his hair, looking at me with bloodshot eyes. There's a line of stubble around his jaw and dark bags underneath his eyes, even more so than normal.

"What happened?" I croak out, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Gale" Haymitch says, and his voice is hoarse too, rusty from disuse. He coughs and clears his throat. "Gale rang. Well he tried ringing _you_ anyway, but you didn't pick up, even when he kept trying". I nod, vaguely remembering the squawk of the phone in the back of my hazy memory. "So the damned boy rings me you see. At first I didn't pick up, but then he's ringing and ringing and just to shut it off I pick it up". I nod, wondering where he's going with this.

"So he's babbling down the phone, something about you not picking up and how worried he is. So I told him sweetheart, that frankly I didn't care, and I put the phone down on him. But then he's ringing again, and I think 'can't have a man have some peace around here', but there's nothing that'll stop him unless, he says, I go round and check on you. I told him you were fine but he wouldn't listen, just kept going on how I had to go round and check".

Haymitch runs his hand through his hair again, tugging it back from his forehead although it flops straight back down into his eyes again. He looks so stressed out and upset that It's actually rather disconcerting and uncomfortable to watch.

"Just to shut him up I'd told him I'd go round. I thought that maybe after the other day... well I thought you might have been better. But I get there, and, and you're lying in a pool of blood, your _own_ blood. I thought you were dead. I didn't know what to do. I panicked, so I brought you here. To mine".

For the first time I notice the thick white bandages that wrap around my forearms, and the copious empty bottles of what looks like sleep syrup and morphling lying around discarded on the floor.

"How long?"

"A month. There abouts", says Haymitch, looking down at his feet. "I couldn't take you to the Capitol. If they'd have known about...what happened, well they would have kept you there, and this time for good". I nod in understanding, but I'm confused by Haymitch's motives.

"But then, isn't that wanted you wanted?", I manage to get out, my voice stiff.

"Sweeheart I wish you'd stop saying stuff like this". Haymitch sighs and scratches at his beard. "The Capitol...they wouldn't understand. I've seen what they do to kids like you. Sedation. Electrical therapy. Isolation. They don't get that it's time you need. Just time, that's all".

Time. Could months, years, even decades cure the permanent ache in my chest from where my heart has been ripped out? Somehow I don't think so, but I can't bring myself to express this to my mentor. He's looking at me like he's wanting me to say something though.

"Okay", is all I can manage. The words I wish I could say: that I'm not going to get better, that it will never stop hurting, that I wish I was dead because anything is better than this, get gummed in my throat. He looks at me warily but otherwise seems satisfied though with my response because he nods and stands, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

"You should get some rest" he says and moves to leave, but he's still hovering in the doorway, acting like he wants to say something else. He swings around to face me, an arm resting on the doorframe.

"I-, I think that you should, um, stay here with me. At least until you're better".

My eyes are already drooping shut and for some reason the thought of staying here with Haymitch doesn't seem to be that big of a deal. I mumble some sort of affirmation. I'm nearly asleep when I hear his voice again. I'm not sure if it's real or if I'm dreaming.

"I really thought you were okay."

"I'm so sorry".

**xxxxxxxxx**

The next time I wake up I'm able to pull myself out of bed and pad across the hallway to the bathroom. I can just make out the muted tones of the television from downstairs, although I can't hear what's actually being said. I quickly use the bathroom, which is sparse in the way of hygiene products, but I manage to find some mouthwash which I gargle and spit into the sink.

There's a small mirror hanging over the washbasin, one of those with a magnified back. I swing it round to face me. My hair's a terrifying mess, but apart from that I look...okay. My skin isn't as deathly pale as I remember it being, and my previously hollowed cheeks have filled out slightly.

I wish that I had something to change it to, other than my long pajamas, but unfortunately this seems to be all that's available right now. I guess I should be thankful at all for the clothes as my mind flashes back to the cold prickle of goosebumps on my bare skin. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks as I realise Haymitch must have seen me naked, not that he hasn't before of course. Being in the Hunger Games means that practically everyone in Panem has, but still, I can't help but feel mortified.

No one was supposed to find me.

I'm about to slip out from the bathroom when I notice something poking out from behind the curtains on the windowsill. I pull one back and am confronted with a mouldy piece of bread and a knife, also growing a green fungus. My mind is cloudy from the last time I talked to Haymitch, but for some reason I distinctly remember his wild expression as he stormed in wielding the bread and knife.

Gingerly I pick up the strange objects, being careful to avoid the worst of the growth and make my way down the stairs. The noise from the television becomes louder and the voices more clear, and I can hear the presenter saying something about 'rebuilding this great nation with the strength of its people'. What a load of bollocks.

Haymitch is sitting on the sofa when I make it to the bottom step, although he doesn't see me. There's a bottle in one hand and I can see him muttering something under his breath, obviously directed at the television. I can't hear what it is he's saying, but I'm pretty sure it's along the lines of my own thoughts.

I clear my throat and his head swings around, startled. I normally would have laughed at the site of a surprised Haymitch, not something one is normally accustomed to seeing, but there's no laughter in me now, so instead I just look at him and raise my findings from the bathroom, quirking an eyebrow upwards in questioning.

He squints his eyes at me, and then makes me jump by leaping from the sofa and striding over to me in a few quick paces. He's holding out his hand, palm side up.

"Give me the knife sweetheart", he coaxes, his voice sounding strained, as if he's anxious to keep his tone leveled.

Why the hell does he want me to give him the -.

Oh.

He thinks I'm going to hurt myself.

I place the knife into his outstretched palm and shrug casually as if I don't get his implication, although I'm sure the blood rushing to my cheeks proves that just as well. Haymitch lets out a visible sigh of relief and makes his way back over to the sofa, flopping back down onto it with a thump, a cloud of dust flying outwards and catching the afternoon sunlight.

"Any reason for the cryptic clues?" he says, not looking at me but instead at the presenter on the TV who looks happily into the camera whilst gesturing to the building works going on behind her. She's still wearing the outlandish Capitol fashion. Some things never change I guess, even when you kill the idea that their whole life is founded on, even when you kill their President...twice.

"What - this?" I say, holding the bread up for his inspection and then chucking it onto the overflowing bin. "Thought you could tell me".

He shrugs and takes a swig from the bottle which has found its way into his hand again.

"You had it the other day...when you...when I was..." I trail off but he catches my drift and raises his shoulders once more.

"I was making a sandwich okay, just so happened that the sandwich came with me, when you, as you so eloquently put it, succeeded in breaking all the glass wear in my house and causing a general ruckus". He turns to me and raises his eyebrows, nocking his chin down towards his chest and looking at me, a look of derision plain to see.

Despite the fact that to anyone else the man sitting across from me like seem like a ginormous prick, I was silently glad that he had reverted back towards his snide remarks and sarcastic looks. This Haymitch I could deal with. Caring Haymitch I could not. Feeling better about this, and not so cautious about the man who I've known for over two years now, I settle myself on the end of the sofa and we both turn to watch the programme together.

I must have dozed off because the TVs been shut off and Haymitch is no longer sitting in his usual position. I feel a tug of anxiety in my chest when I realise I'm alone, and I'm about to call out for him when I hear the clang of saucepans in the kitchen and then Haymitch is popping is head round the door and shouting "hope you like shit food, because if you do, then you're in luck!".

The mention of food has my stomach rumbling, but the burnt smell wafting from the kitchen immediately quells my hunger.

"I'm good" I shout back. Haymitch walks from the kitchen to stand before me, which would normally be quite a menacing thing to behold, but somehow the pink spotty tea towel which is draped around his arm is ruining the effect.

"I don't believe that was a question" he says.

"So what, it was an order?" I grumble sarcastically.

"Why yes, yes I do believe it was", Haymitch smirks, a glint playing across his eye. "Now come and eat". I let out a huff but follow him into the kitchen, muttering under my breath.

"Nice tea towel"

"I heard that. Greasy Sae" he mutters in explanation with a roll of his eyes, and I realise that she must have been around here recently. I was wondering why the place looked in a marginally better condition to its usual state. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and Haymitch smiles too. We're both not ones for being coddled or told what to do, something which the matronly and maternal Sae is champion at.

I sit down to eat the burnt toast and eggs which Haymitch has managed to prepare without somehow miraculously not setting the kitchen on fire. Neither of us says anything. We're both too alike to need to.

**xxxxxxx**

The days begin to roll into one, interspersed only by restless and terrifying sleep. I wake early and go to bed late, incapable of sleeping more than a few hours a night now. I dream of Prim and Rue, and of Peeta and Gale, I even dream of Foxface and Cato. Every time I close my eyes my mind sketches out a picture of such ferocity, that even things which I know didn't really happen, like Rue being picked apart by a giant bird, like Peeta camouflaging himself so that he turns in Snow, suddenly seem so real.

I'm exhausted by the time morning comes around, and it's all I can do to drag myself up, wrap a flimsy blanket around the shoulders and collapse onto the sofa for another day of propaganda and mock hope which beams out the television. They show pictures from the re-building of the Capitol, and Districts 1 and 2. They say they're starting on those places first because the new government needs somewhere to base themselves, but really it's just the same as it's always been...the Capitol reaping the wealth and special treatment, whilst the rest of the outlying Districts are left to rot and ruin.

I think of Gale in District 2 and I can't help but wonder if he finally feels a sense of accomplishment for setting out to do what he always wanted, even if to me everything has just become more terrible since this whole bloody thing started. Granted, there are no more Hunger Games, no more Reapings, but the inequality and unfairness still remains the same in my eyes.

Haymitch stirs next to me breaking me out from my thoughts. His long body is stretched over the sofa, his face half smothered by cushions. One of his hands hangs over the side, still clutching at an empty bottle. This is how I normally find Haymitch, until he jolts himself awake, goes to take a piss, and them promptly goes back to sleep again.

He doesn't scream like I do, and he doesn't wake up dripping with sweat, but I often hear him muttering under his breath, his eyes moving restlessly under his eyelids, seeing something in what can only be Haymitch's own personal nightmares. Sometimes when he wakes up his eyes look so frightened, so utterly despondent, that I've nearly gone over to him. But then he's back to his normal self in a heartbeat, and I go back to staring at the wall, trying to internalise my own feelings, using them to block out the rest of the world like armor.

We're both up now, staring vacantly at some programme which keeps talking about 'sustainable development' and a 'brighter future'. Haymitch occasionally takes swigs from a large bottle of gin and I sit with the arms wrapped around my knees, hugging myself against the armchair which I've somehow made my own.

"Why didn't they come back?"

It takes me a moment to realise I've voiced my thoughts out loud, my feeling somehow leeching out of me, regardless of how hard I try to hold them in. Haymitch doesn't look at me but I can see his posture stiffen slightly.

"I need to know Haymitch" I tell him, my voice betraying the hurt which I feel for my abandonment. He takes a moment and then nods, running his hand over his stubbly jaw line.

"You're Mother couldn't bear it, losing Prim and your Father. She decided to stay in District 4, set up a new hospital. I think...I think she just wanted to forget".

I hug my knees closer to my chest, letting my chin drop down to rest on them so that my hair falls across my face. I don't want Haymitch to see my tears. He sets the bottle down on the floor and moves over to the front door. There's movement in my periphery and I'm not quite sure what he's doing but then he's standing in front of me, holding out two very crumpled letters.

I take them hesitantly. One has my name elegantly looped in small cramped letters written in green ink on the front, and the other just says 'Kat' in a scrawled hand. I gulp down my tears as I recognise the writing - they're from my Mother, and from Gale. I clutch them to my heart but otherwise make no move to open them. Haymitch retreats back to his usual seat and slumps down, his shoulders hunched forward.

"I would have given them to you sooner, but I just though it was better to wait, until you were feeling - okay".

Is that what he thinks I am? Okay? I might not be trying to hurt myself anymore, Haymitch has made sure of that by keeping one eye on me at all times, regardless of how much he pretends not to, but I feel like my entire life force is seeping out of my very pores on a daily basis. There really is nothing left for me and I feel like the letters scrunched in my fist are really just the final nail in the coffin, the final goodbye of the one's I love.

I try to talk but my voice is wobbly, and I'm scared that If I do I'll start to cry and won't be able to stop.

"Peeta?" is also I can manage without breaking down; even that simple syllable has my voice cracking.

"Peeta is still not - Peeta" Haymitch says, taking a particularly large swig from a new bottle of liquor. I understand what he's saying: Peeta still thinks I'm a mutt, he's still in the Capitol's ghostly clutches. Even in death Snow lingers, his presence crawling his ways into every crevice of my life, tentacles writhing through every moment of happiness I ever had.

We sit in silence for the rest of the night. At some point when the sun goes down Haymitch passes me the bottle. We take it in turns gulping down the bitter clear liquid, until my eyes grow heavy and sleep starts to take hold. I vaguely remember a blanket being laid over me but then the lights go out and the dreams begin again.

* * *

**A/N**

****Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews, especially _**firelovewater23, Phoenix, revanha, Adannaya and Ai Chiyo.** _In reply to Ai Chiyo's review, a romantic pairing _will_ happen, but I'm going not going to tell you when ;)

As always, please review. They are a great motivation and a constant source of inspiration (and not forgetting they make me very happy!).

C


	6. Peeta's House

"Here Katniss, I wrote you a letter".

My Mother is standing in the middle of an open piece of grass, in exactly the same position where I laid Rue down to die. She's handing me a crisp white envelope, but as I take it from her grasp it starts to turn red, disintegrating as I hold it, until there's blood pouring down my hands and my arms and I'm screaming at my mother for just standing there, and screaming because the blood is burning my wrists and then -

I'm awake.

The noise gets stuck in my throat and I realise I've been itching at the scabs on my wrists so that they're bleeding and raw. I hastily clutch at the bottom of my sleeves and tug them over the ugly scars. The air around me is hot and cloying and suddenly I'm anxious to be out of this room, out of the house, for the first time in weeks.

My father's old leather hunting jacket is hung over the back of the chair and I pull it around me. It's been too well worn by me now to still smell of him, but somehow the feeling of him still clings to the soft leather and so despite the fact that the sleeves hang too long over my hands, and despite the fact that I could now afford one that actually fits, I have never once contemplated a new one for myself.

Prim's red blanket too is sitting on the chair, folded neatly into a small square, along with my family book of herbal remedies and edible plants, and some other personal effects. I had persuaded Haymitch to collect them from my house last week, and although he had complained and grumbled the entire way through, he'd still gone and got them, for which I was immensely grateful, even if I hadn't told him so. I just couldn't go back into that house again, couldn't even look at it from the windows of Haymitch's house without suppressing a shudder. My wrists are burning again and I swear I can smell roses.

I quietly make my way down the stairs and push my bare feet in my old pair of hunting boots, not bothering to even lace them. Haymitch is lying face down on the sofa, his arms and legs hanging off of it at strange angles. I'd told him countless times that I'd be more than happy to take his place on the sofa, but he'd wave me away with a flick of his hand. "I barely even use that room anyway, sweetheart" seems his generic response now every time I bring it up.

I push open the door for the first time, a breathe of fresh air heaven on my hot and sweaty skin, and venture out into the outside world. Immediately my eyes are taken aback by the bright blue sky, a hazy winter sun round in the sky. I'm so used to being in the semi gloom of Haymitch's house that the light temporarily gives me a headache as I try and adjust. My breath comes out in tendrils of smoke in front of me, and I stuff my hands into the deep jacket pockets.

It's been snowing again and the Victors Village looks more beautiful, and more desolate than ever. The white powder has settled on the lawns and hedges and the sunlight catches it and throws it back in gleaming shards of light. Everything is sparkling as if there are diamonds encrusted on each individual blade of grass. But the bright white of the snow only serves to highlight the dark shadows behind the windows of the houses which surround the square. Empty and bare they stand deserted and cold, all except for Haymitch's that is. Even the absence of the usual laughter of children and adults alike on the occasion of snow is entirely disconcerting. There is only silence.

"Flashing the neighbours are we sweetheart?" comes Haymitch's voice from behind me. His eyebrow is raised as he surveys me in my boots and pajamas. I didn't even hear him come out of the house. He wraps a thin scarf around his neck and comes over to stand beside me, his booted feet crunching in the snow, shielding his eyes against the light and surveying the square.

"It's sad, don't you think?" I whisper.

"What is?"

"They're all just so empty. It's like somehow life stopped when we went away and never quite restarted again"

"Dropping bombs on an entire population tends to do that to a place. 12 isn't exactly the most favoured holiday destination in the whole of Panem now is it, sweetheart". Haymitch smirks and I can tell from the jerk of his hand that he wants a swig of something to drink, but the alcohol is back in the house.

"Don't be a jerk," I mutter, digging my hands further down into my pockets. We both stare at the scene before us silently, and I know that both our eyes have locked on the house across from us. The one which was always full of laughter, that always smelt of freshly baked bread: Peeta's.

"Do you think he'll ever come back?" I say morosely, wanting desperately for Haymitch to reassure me, to tell me that yes, he will, and that somehow some sense of normalcy can still be possible for a messed up person like myself.

"Unlikely, even if is wasn't for all the shit that the Capitol did to him", Haymitch says nonchalantly, looking at Peeta's house with a look mild interest on his face, but something else in his eyes entirely. A bird sounds in the tree above us but the silence is still frosty in the air. He catches me looking at him through narrowed eyes.

"What!?" he exclaims, raising his hands in dramatic defence. There's a hush before my rage builds and bursts, like a great soapy bubble.

"What the fuck does that mean Haymitch?" I spit out furiously, "that he wouldn't come back even if he got better, is that what you're trying to say?"

"Sweetheart, the boy loved you and he finally thought he had you when you won the 74th, but you get back here and you're cold and distant and he realises that it was all just a show for the cameras. That going to hurt a man, regardless of how much he tries not to show it. Why would he come back, just to have his heart broken again?"

For a moment my anger falters and my face falls. He catches my broken expression and realises I've been let down and disappointed by what he's just said but he shrugs it off.

"Don't expect me to sugar coat it for you sweetheart, I'm only telling you the truth. Don't try and lump your daddy issues onto me".

I'm furious at Haymitch for saying these things and my rage breaks through the surface once again, my jaw hanging slackly as if I can't believe what he's just said. Maybe it was just a show for the cameras, but that didn't mean that I didn't care about him, didn't mean that I wasn't incapable of loving him in my own way. Who was _he_ to say _I_ had broken Peeta; that was the Capitol. Who was _he_ to suggest that it was all _my_ fault. I round on him quickly for his ignorant assumptions.

"In case you've forgotten Haymitch it was _your_ ideas to play to the cameras, you're idea to play some stupid love-sick teenagers. I never wanted any part in it".

"And what about when the cameras were off, after the Games, when Peeta would bake for you and paint for you, and then you'd be straight off with Gale again to play in the woods? Was that me too?"

I stutter; he's right, of course he's right, but that wasn't my fault. It's entirely his if anything for making me choose between the two of them. I shouldn't even have had to choose in the first place!

"That's not the point; the point is _this_ -", I shoot an outstretched arm towards Peeta's house, "- is all your fault!"

"My fault!?" Haymitch is shouting now, his voice carrying across the empty square. "How the hell is this my fault sweetheart?"

"If you'd just stuck to the plan, to the promise you made me, that we'd protect him, even if it meant me dying, then he'd be safe right now. He's been in that house right there, probably with a girl who he deserves, baking cakes or reading or - or, -something, anything!"

"No sweetheart", he sneers "no, he wouldn't, because the rebellion wouldn't have worked without you, and he wouldn't be here. The Capitol would have simply killed him after it failed".

Our faces are only inches away now as we both standing yelling at one another, our breath misting in front of our faces. I narrow my eyes at him.

"Killing him would have been kinder" I hiss.

I can see his fists clenching and his jaw working and I half wonder whether he's going to hit me as we both stand frozen, glaring at one other, but then he's walking back to the house and slamming the door shut with a bang that echoes around the square. Logic and common sense tells me to go back inside too. The cold has seeped through the thin material of my pajamas and I can already feel it numbing my bones, but I refuse to follow him back inside. I can't even stand to be near him right now.

I make my way instead down the rutted path which is now covered in an off colour muddy white, intent on being somewhere that's simply not here.

**xxxxxxx**

The sun is beginning to set when I find my way back to Haymitch's house. I'm frozen to the bone and my pajama bottoms are ripped and muddy. I feel a nervous flutter in my belly as I wonder what Haymitch'll say, but then, why should I care? I push open the door, intending to simply slip past him and go to bed, but a gust of wind catches it and hurls it against the wall and a deafening bang resounds through the house.

Haymitch emerges from the kitchen. I'm completely taken aback. I've never seen him like this before. His eyes are full of panic and the skin around them is inflamed and raw, as if he's been rubbing them constantly. His hair is sticking out at odd angles around his face and I notice his hand is shaking as he points at me, as if satisfying himself that yes, it is Katniss Everdeen standing in his doorway.

"Where the fuck have you been?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

"Out" I sneer.

"And you couldn't have told me first?" his voice is escalating now, but two can play at that game.

"Now who's the one with the daddy issues Haymitch?"

"Do you realise what a selfish bitch you are sometimes Katniss?" he hisses quietly, dangerously.

"Maybe I'm selfish, because I've got no one left to be selfless for." I say, intending it to come out as a pointed, strong statement, but instead just making myself sound pathetic. I make towards the stairs, kicking off my wet boots as I go. Underneath my toes are red and painful from the cold but I won't let Haymitch see, I won't give him the satisfaction. But Haymitch makes his way across the room in three quick paces and then he's there, blocking me off from the stairs.

"What about me? Am I not a person too? Am I not a friend?"

The angry edge from his voice is gone, replaced only by one of hurt. Shit. I'm so used to thinking of Haymitch as the drunkard with no feelings, that I forget that really, he's just the same as me: good at hiding them.

"I didn't realise you cared that much", I say and jump slightly when his hand flies across my face and punches the wall next to my head.

"Why do you insist on saying that? Is it because you think I'm not capable of caring for anyone? Oh look, it's the old drunk from District 12, the one with the heart of stone." he talks fast, rolling his eyes. "Let's all mock him to his face, because after all, he has no feelings left to care. He drank them all away". He's breathless now and he removes his hand from the wall and quickly turns away.

Haymitch has never talked about himself before. Of course, I know his story, I'd watched his Hunger Games, but never before had he confided in my about anything to do with himself, about anything to do with anything in fact. And then I notice it as he moves away, his breathe doesn't smell of it's normal reek of liquor. He must not have touched a drink all day...and he's on edge because of it.

I try to think of what to say back to him. Do I tell him that's not what I think, when in actual fact, it always has been? I have always seen Haymitch as someone who cares for nothing and no one, not even himself. He's the person with the snarky response to everything, the one who hates the world and everything in it. But now I notice that the ever-present sneer on his face masks the emotions which I sometimes see in his eyes. Am I really that selfish that I've never even noticed it before? Haymitch saves me having to answer him though as he turns his back on me, brushing me off and waving me away.

"Go and get changed" he mutters in a miserable voice as he slumps down onto the sofa, reaching for a bottle of alcohol. I stand and stare at the back of his blonde head as he lifts the bottle to his lips again and again, but when I still can't think of anything to say I make my way upstairs to strip out of my sodden clothes.

**xxxxxxxx**

I'm awakened in the night by a strangled yelp. At first I think it's coming from the mutts in my dream, but as my eyes flicker open I realise that the sound is coming from downstairs. I creep across the bedroom and down the stairs. There are no lights on and the house is dark, but a brilliant moonlight shines through the un-curtained windows, casting everything in a ghostly white light.

Haymitch is on the sofa, and he's tossing and turning, a low groan breaking its way from between his lips. It seems like he's muttering something under his breath, but I can't make it out, so I step closer. His hands are clasped together and drawn tightly into his chest, so different from his normal languid sleeping position of arm and leg hanging off the side of the sofa.

"No, get away" he mutters, his head thrashing from side to side.

"Haymitch?" I whisper

"_No_!" he screams and I jump backwards startled. He groans again and it's full of anguish and agony.

"Haymitch!" I say again, a bit more loudly, but still he continues to wail. I edge closer and rest my hand lightly on his shoulder and immediately the sound cuts off and Haymitch's eyes are wide open, his hand tightly wrapped around my wrist that reaches out to him. At first he doesn't seem to know who I am and his eyes are wide and wild, but then he drops his hand and passes it over his face.

"I - I heard you screaming", I whisper, nursing my wrist in my other hand.

"Sorry" he murmurs, and eyes a half empty bottle of liquor on the floor. "This stuff normally keeps me quiet". He yawns. "Not enough today though huh". He gives me a weary smile but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. I know he's trying to make me feel better for seeing him in this way but it only makes me feel more guilty. He hadn't drunk today because he was out searching for me. Now I'm the reason for his nightmares.

"Go back to bed, sweetheart. It won't happen again".

I shake my head. "I'm not tired". He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, which is even more deranged than usual.

"Well then, seeing as we're both up, I think we could both use a drink", Haymitch stands and makes his way to the kitchen, coming back in with two chipped mismatched china mugs. He gives one to me and then pours it half full of what I can only presume is something from Ripper. As far as I'm aware, the good stuff from the Capitol ran out weeks ago.

I nurse the mug in my hands, taking small sips and trying to forget about the anguished sounds that had filled the house not minutes earlier. Haymitch too seems lost in thought. He's staring out of the window but I know he's not really seeing the world outside but instead he's still reliving his dream, and I'm willing to bet it involved his Games.

"Her name was Maysilee wasn't it?" I breathe, and for a moment my words hang on the balance of a knife edge. Haymitch could either yell at me for bringing up her name, or be okay with it. Thankfully, it's the latter. He sighs and takes a gulp from his mug and nods his head.

"Yep. Maysilee Donner."

"What happened? To her I mean". Haymitch turns to look at me through narrowed eyes.

"You know what happened, you saw the tape"

"I saw the Capitol's tape. I saw the game of it all. They make it sounds so glorious, dying for your district. But it's not though is it. There's no soundtrack that plays over the top, no theatrical value when it happens, it's just cold, bloody, death; all alone." I stare into the ashes of the dark fireplace, remembering Rue and her song.

There's a pregnant silence before Haymitch speaks. "She was a girl from 12, couple of years younger than me. Cute thing, blonde hair, blue eyes, you know the like. She saved me in the arena, killed one of the Tributes with her blow dart gun, and so we decided to ally". Haymitch's eyes are far away now, looking back in time.

"We walked to the edge of the arena. Maysilee couldn't see the point, but I persuaded her to keep going, sure that we'd find something. We finally make it there but Maysilee decided to head back into the arena, said that she didn't want it to be just us two left at the end fighting". Haymitch glances at me, knowing that I know full well what that feels like. I can almost here the words 'the previous rule about two tributes from the same District has now been revoked', echoing through the back of my brain.

"So she went, and I let her go".

"Haymitch it wasn't your fault. Those birds -"

"Those birds killed her is what they did! She saved me from the Tributes and I couldn't even save her from some bloody birds". His head falls to his hands, his hair shielding his face from mine.

"She died in my arms, those big blue eyes of hers turning glassy. I've dreamt about those eyes every night for the past sixteen years".

There's silence whilst be both drink, absorbing and reflecting on the conversation. This time, it's me who breaks the silence.

"We didn't ask for this, did we?"

"No, sweetheart, no we didn't. But it's what we've got, and there's no changing it now". There's a brief pause before I blurt out the guilt that has found it's way to the surface.

"Haymitch, I'm - I'm sorry...about earlier", I hang my head and feel a fresh wave of shame wash over me as I realise that he's right, we didn't ask for this and we can't change it. We're both trying to make the best out of what we have, and all I do is shove it back in Haymitch's face. I'm disgusted with myself at my selfishness.

"Don't worry about it. You're right, I'm not your Dad and you can do what you want" he speaks quietly.

"No Haymitch, you're not my Dad, but you're my friend and my mentor and I owe you more than that" I say.

"Me and you both kiddo, me and you both".

**xxxxxxx**

The next time I decide to go back to the woods, I leave a scrawled note for Haymitch on the kitchen counter. Luckily this time I've dressed appropriately, even wearing the thick leather gloves which Peeta gave me for my birthday last year. They make me sad to wear, but they're the only pair I have, and so I make do.

Haymitch still hasn't told me what happened to the jet black bow which Beetee gave me, and I haven't asked, but as I climb over the now silent fence, no longer humming with electric energy, I make my way over to the groove under the second tree to my right. Someone has hollowed out a space under the roots of the tree and shoved a metal box under it. It wouldn't be visible to anyone, save for those looking for it. That someone was my father.

I reach down and brush off the snow which has settled onto the box, open it's catch, and pull out my old hunting bow. It could do with some care, but right now the feel of it in my hand is glorifying and I feel a warm spark in my chest. It's like a piece of me that I thought was lost has returned.

I spend the rest of the day cleaning the bow and hunting, stalking silently through the trees after birds and squirrels. The adrenaline pumping through my system feels incredible after months of sitting inside. When dusk is beginning to fall I carry my claims: two fat birds and a skinny grey squirrel, back over the fence to Haymitch's house.

I shake off my snow crusted clothing and wet boots to find Haymitch awake and actually doing something for once. I walk closer, the dead animals dangling in my palm, to inspect what he's doing. He looks up at me and dangles a carrot from one of his hands, an almost sheepish look on his face.

"When I saw you're note, about going hunting, knew you'd bring something back, so I had a rummage and came up with these" he explains, turning back to peel the vegetables with a large hunting knife.

I smile at him and dump the dead carcasses down on the counter, this simple action entirely agreeing with him.

"I'd best get started on this then".

By the end of it, there's a steaming plate of meat and vegetables and as I bite into one of the fat bird legs, its succulent juices run down my chin and over my hands. It's the best meal I've had in what seems like years, and I think Haymitch agrees, because we both sit in silence until we're licking at our fingers to suck up the remaining juices.

"What would Effie think?" I mumble between fingers. Haymitch surprises me by letting out a short bark of a laugh.

"I think she'd be furious sweetheart, just the way I like her". There's a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Haymitch. Did you and her, well were you ever -"

He smiles but shakes his head. "At the start she had a bit of a thing for me, back before this came along", he pats his slightly protruding belly. "She was young back then too, either being unbelievably obvious about it, fluttering her eyes lids and always falling in to me, or being ridiculously shy and running away from me with a squeak". He smiles and then sighs. "But after what happened in the Arena with Maysilee, and then what happened with my girl at home, I knew it would never be safe to be close to anyone again, so I rebuffed all her attempts until she finally started to see me for the old ugly drunk I am today".

"But you liked her? Once upon a time?"

He scratches at his stubble. "Yeh, I guess I did...once upon a time".

"It's not too late Haymitch. You could always give it a go now the Capitol's gone. And you may be a drunk but you're not ugly"

Haymitch raises an eyebrow and looks at me. "Shucks sweetheart, you're making me blush" he drawls sarcastically. "But no, that birds already flown the nest"

"Somebody else then?" I ask. I don't know why I'm so keen for Haymitch to develop some sort of emotion bond with someone, but I wish he'd say yes. Perhaps it's because Haymitch is like me...broken and without anyone else in the world, and maybe, just _maybe_, if Haymitch can find someone, then I can too.

"You desperate to marry me off to someone so you can have the run of this place to yourself is it?" Haymitch jokes, picking up our dirty dishes and carrying them to the sink. I try and think what it would be like if Haymitch left, returned to the Capitol or one of the wealthier Districts, started a family, had kids. I'd be left here, with no one else, and suddenly I desperately don't want him to go anywhere. Even the thought of this make-believe woman and children that I've concocted in my head is making my stomach squirm with jealously.

"No, it's not like that", I say, wanting to tell him how much I wish he'd set an example for me by going off and finding a decent woman, starting a family, but the very thought of it is making me sick to my stomach. Haymitch is _my_ mentor, _my_ friend. He laughs and looks back over his shoulder at me, his hands in the dirty dish water.

"Couldn't anyway, even if I wanted to sweetheart. Court appointed guardian, remember?".

I should feel guilty. Haymitch can't leave the District because of me, he can't seek out any sort of resemblance of a normal life because he has to look after this broken shell of a person. But I don't. I feel...happy. He can't leave, and that means that I won't be alone again. I know I'm being unbelievably selfish again, but I just can't help it. My face contorts as I try to twist it so that Haymitch can't see the beginnings of a smile, but he takes the warped expression on my face to mean that I'm feeling horrible about it all.

"Hey, don't worry about it. I'm grand here. Got my house, got my bottles. What more could a man want?" he laughs, sounding jovial, but underneath his words there's just a hint of sadness, a touch of something that wishes there was more. I get up to stand beside him, and we stand shoulder to shoulder, him washing, me drying.

"Why didn't they let me come back by myself?" I ask. We've never really talked about the trial before, apart from that time with Plutarch on the hovercraft, and even then, it was Plutarch doing all of the talking.

Haymitch shrugs. "Guess they didn't want you making any more trouble for them". I snort.

"And they think that you'd be the one to stop that did they? You were the cause of most of this trouble in the first place!". He laughs and then leans down to my ear as if to whisper a secret. His hot breath tickles my ear as he speaks.

"I think they wanted to get rid of me too" he whispers jokingly, as if this is some big secret that can't be said out loud. I pretend to be shocked, raising my eyebrows and opening my mouth.

"No!? Surely they can't have wanted the great Haymitch Aberforth, an upstanding citizen of Panem, to leave?"

Haymitch smiles and reaches up a soapy hand to pretend to twizzle at an imaginary mustache on his upper lip. "They were mostly worried that I'd upstage the lot of them", he says, putting on a Capitol accent and looking down at me with a regal expression. I laugh and flick water in his face.

"Could do with a wash anyway", he smirks, emptying the water through the drain and wiping his hands on an old tea tower. He leaves me to dry up the remaining dishes and at some point the shower is switched on. I can here the tinkle of water through the floor above me, and for some strange reason, just this small sound comforts my greatly.

* * *

**Sorry about the delay in the update guys! This chapter has been on my computer for a while but I've only now got round to uploading it. Hope you like it :) **

**Please review and make my day**


	7. Knifes

For once, Haymitch is out. There's a note on the kitchen counter when I wake up and it's a wonder that I can even read it. His handwriting looks like he may as well have just scribbled randomly on the sheet, but I can just make make out the word 'food'- or is it 'foot'? Opening up the cupboards I make a quick scan and realise it was actually 'food', or at least I bloody hope it was, because there is hardly anything in this damn house to eat.

I rummage around a bit, pushing away old bottles and empty containers until I find a can at the back of one of the cupboards, which looks as though it's actually older than me. The label on it is so faded that it's hard to see what the picture is actually depicting. My stomach growls, despite the antiquity of it, and I go to the draw to find a knife to pry it open with. I frown though when I realise that the cutlery draw is devoid of it's usual knife. Haymitch must have used it and not put it back, something which would not surprise me in the slightest.

I place the can down on the kitchen table and make my way into the lounge, which is strewn with paper, and empty bottles, and venture to Haymitch's usual spot in which he hides his knifes. It's empty. "God damn it Haymitch" I growl at the empty house, wondering where on earth the knifes could have disappeared to. I let out an annoyed huff and begin to pick through some of the paper that litters the floor, searching underneath it for a secret stash. I stop in a half-bend though when a thought strikes me: maybe Haymitch has removed them on purpose. This is the first time he's left the house to my knowledge whilst I've been staying here. Is it possible that he still doesn't consider me stable enough not to try and kill myself? I remember the look on his face when I came downstairs holding a simple butter knife, the way that his whole face tensed like an elastic band about to snap. He must have hidden them somewhere, or taken them with him. Either way, they're gone.

My stomach squirms and at first I think it's anger; I'm practically a grown woman and here he is hiding sharp things from me like I'm some kind of unruly child. But then the squirming in my belly grows in heat, and reaches up through my chest, touching at my cheeks. He did this because he was worried. He did it because he cared.

Does Haymitch _care_ about _me_?

I try to shake away the feeling. Haymitch doesn't care about anything or anyone. He drinks and he drinks and his moments are only motivated by his desire for a quiet and drunken life. But still, something in his mannerism, sometimes in his eyes, the way that he speaks to me sometimes - it's almost kind. Does that mean he wants me to stay? Does that mean he actually _likes_ me being here?

_No!_ I chide myself. _Stop thinking these things!_

I've already lost so many people and all of those people were ones I never thought I'd lose. Yet, where are they now? Not here that's for sure. Fale hope is dangerous. Fale hope costs simply too much. I can't afford to place my belief, my trust, in someone else again. It's not a case of _will_ they let me down, it's only a case of _when_.

I scrunch the piece of paper in my hand into a ball and throw it onto the sofa. This place really is a mess. I think I've been too wrapped up in my own self-pitying wallow to notice before, but as soon as I do, it's pretty hard not to notice. I bend down and begin to pick up some of the bottles from the floor. They tinkle when I pick them up and set them in the kitchen, and by the time I'm done I've worked up quite a sweat and the kitchen table is covered in empty bottles of different shapes and sizes. I wipe a dirty hand across my sweaty forehead and survey the sight in front of me.

I get why Haymitch drinks. I honestly do. It blocks out the pain, numbing everything. It's like an anaesthetic for your soul and all the hurt and trauma that you feel. It's like walking into a room full of your worst fears, and then turning off the light. They're still there, but they're hidden, gone for now. Out of sight out of mind, my mother always used to say. But then my mother left me, so what good are her sayings to me now?

Drinking can block out the pain, sure, but it blocks out everything else though. There's no dimmer switch- just on or off. It means that Haymitch doesn't, can't, won't feel happiness, won't feel hope. Could he ever love, or has he been so corrupted by the drink that something like that is now impossible? Could he ever _feel_? Could _I _ever feel?

I make my way into the living room and throw open the curtains that for once have actually been drawn. Dust circles in twisting patterns in the beams of light that slant through the windows and the light catches on the dirty crystal fitting, sending shards of rainbowed luminescence across the floor. He's never asked me to tidy before, and I've never really considered it, but then perhaps cleaning is the least I can do for Haymitch, the only thing that I can do for him to show him that I am grateful for him, even if I've never told him to his face. I venture in search of a dust cloth and eventually find one hidden underneath the sink, tucked into the U-bend. I snort. Seeing any type of cleaning materials in this house is like finding an impostor underneath the stairs.

I run the cloth under the tap and squeeze it so that the water runs down my hands to my elbows, and I try not to think of the cloths which were used to mop up the blood, so much blood, in the rebellion, that ran in rivets down the nurses arms as they tried to clean it in dirty water. I shiver and try to shake off the memories, as I begin to cut through the dirt and grime on the kitchen work-surfaces. I run the tap and clean and squeeze, clean and squeeze, until the water is no longer grey, and the surfaces look as clean as they're ever going to get.

Pushing open the back door I take out all of the bottles and line them in a row again the back of the house. Perhaps they can use them again down at the Hobb. I move onto the living room next, finding some black bags and filling them with the discarded junk which has someone found its way into every nook and cranny. There are old wrappers and bottle tops stuffed down the gaps in the sofa, and dirty newspaper sheets flung into the corners of the room. I pick them all up until my back hurts, and then deposit the bags, three of them, beside the back door.

For the first time the room looks decent at least and I sit down onto the sofa, twiddling my thumbs in my lap and scanning the room. With all the clutter, my mind didn't even notice the empty bookshelf which stands on one wall of the room, and I didn't even realise that the table which sits in the corner, usually covered in a mound of crap, is actually a desk.

I stand up and make my way over to it, running my finger along its edge. It's made of a dark mahogany, and on it's surface there's a dark green piece of leather hammered in with dull brass fixers. It's rather beautiful and I can't help but wonder where Haymitch got it. They were generous with the furniture when they presented us these houses, the crystal light fitting for one is evidence of this, but I'm sure that they would never have splashed out on something like this. This is grand. Opulent even. Something reserved for the Capitol only. I frown when I notice old ring marks staining the leather like many crescents of the same moon, and I lick my thumb to try to rub away the marks. Some of them budge slightly, but most remain.

There's no chair, but I try to picture Haymitch sitting here anyway. What would he be doing? Reading? Writing? I imagine how his blonde hair would fall across his face, how his foot would be tapping impatiently as it does sometimes does when we're watching TV.

There are draws in the desk and I reach out to pull at the brass handle, surprised when it opens after a gentle bit of coaxing. I was sure that it would be locked. There's nothing in there though, just an old ball of string and a fountain pen which probably dried up years ago. The next draw down is completely empty too. I move to the other side of the desk and find some blank sheets of paper and a wooden ruler. I'm about to give up when I realise that this draw is much deeper than the other two, from the looks of the panelling. I wrap on the wood with my knuckle and the sound that greets me is hollow.

When I was little my father had once made me run across our small living room. He told me to listen to the sound of my footsteps. At first I was confused; a footstep is a footstep; but as I ran I realised that in the corner of the room they were quiet and solid, but in the centre they were loud and echoing. My father had lifted up the rug to show me the bare floorboards. Then he had reached down and pried one loose. I thought at first he had broken my mother's floor, but then a whole section had lifted up to reveal a small space with a floor of hard pressed dirt. A cubby hole. A secret hiding place.

I pull out the paper from the draw and search blindly with my hand for any notches and bumps in the smooth wood.

I find one.

It's at the back, just a knot in the wood, but when I press down hard on it with my two forefingers there's a click and the base of the draw shifts slightly. I push it backwards so that it folds in on itself to reveal a secret space. There's a small black box and when I lift it up to inspect it in the daylight I realise that there are gold initials stenciled on in beautiful cursive writing. _M.A.A._

Who is _M.A.A_?

My heart suddenly beats faster when I think of Haymitch returning home to find me rummaging around his personal belongings. He's always been open with me if I ask him a question, but this is too far. I contemplate putting it back, but my curiosity is just too much. I'm like a magnet drawn to its opposing pole, like a magpie drawn to silver. I slide the draw quickly back into place and place the paper back inside, hoping that Haymitch won't notice. I'm sure he hasn't used this desk in years though, and hopefully he won't start again any time soon.

I scamper up the stairs with the box in my hand and slide it under the bed towards the darkest and dustiest corner. And just in time too. The front door opens and I can hear footsteps and the rustle of bags. The footsteps move into the kitchen and something heavy is set down on the kitchen table. I can hear Haymitch whistle a long undulating note as he surveys the surroundings.

He looks at me when I make my way downstairs with his eyebrows raised, and I hope to god that my cheeks aren't red - he's certain to suspect me then.

"I didn't realise you were aspiring to be a maid sweetheart", he says, running a finger down the doorframe and inspects his fingertip for dust. He rubs his fingers together and looks at me with an expression of amusement on his face.

"I, um, well I just thought it could use a clean you know". I'm stammering and my voice is shaky and Haymitch narrows his eyes at me. I'm such a crap liar, even though it's the truth really. I steady myself and quell my wavering voice. "We're not all pigs Haymitch", I retort in a much more convincing tone, steadying my lip and throwing him a smirk. Haymitch laughs and turns back into the kitchen to start unloading the bags and I feel myself let out a sigh of relief. He didn't even look at the desk.

We eat a cold supper of dried meat and hard cheese, and Haymitch somehow managed to find lemonade at the Hobb, a rare delicacy in 12, and we drink it in slow sips after the meal, savouring it's sweetness against out tongues. It tastes like summer. I make my excuses to go to bed early, feigning a headache from the sugar.

Once there I close the bedroom down and hurry back over to the bed. Lying flat on my stomach I can just about grab the box and draw it to me, a personal treasure in a sea of dust. I wipe off the dirt that has gathered on my knees and elbows hurriedly and sit on bed, legs crossed, cradling the box in my hands. I can't help but glance nervously over to the door where I'm so scared that Haymitch will decide to walk it, somehow knowing what I'm doing. Can he sense my shame and excitement like a foreign energy in the house? Can he hear my hammering heartbeat through the thick wooden floorboards?

The door stays closed shut though, and after tracing the golden lettering with my fingers for all of two minutes, I pry the lid off.

It contains only a few items, and I pull them out carefully one at a time, like plucking the wings from a butterfly.

First comes an envelope. It's dog eared and showing signs of ware, brown spots of age marking its otherwise creamy colour. There's no sign of a name adorning its face. At first I think that it's some kind of letter, never opened, never seen, but as I turn it over in my hands I realise that it's unsealed, merely tucked into itself. I pull it open and tweeze out the contents, realising with a start that between my fingertips I now hold sepia toned, faded memories.

I bring the first photograph close to my eyes, surveying the picture before me. There's a couple, standing on a raised porch running around the length of what appears to be a shop. At least there's a sign above the door, but it's been cut off by the camera, so I can't quite read what it says. Both man and woman are holding themselves stiffly in the picture, their lips pinched thin and their eyes narrowed and suspicious.

They are from District 12, or at least they were. There is no doubt about it. The man stands in his sepia toned overalls, which I know in fact to be a deep navy. My father had a set just like them. His face is thin, made to look even more gaunt by the way his long hair is pulled flat over his head. The woman too has the type of hollowed out face so common in the desperation of 12, but her eyes are softer than her husbands, and the arms holding a bundle of cloth and baby betray her stiff back with love and care.

The baby is barely visible, but even through the umber pigments there is no mistaking the tuft of blonde hair which pokes from beneath the blankets.

Haymitch.

It has to be.

I study the man once again, and sure enough the similarities are there. The flaxen hair, the sharp jawline, although Haymitch most definitely got the curve of his lips from his mother I decide. Hers are like a delicate kiss in the centre of a heart shaped face, even if made slightly bitter by the hardship of life and the babe in her arms. Because that's what a baby is in 12: another mouth to feed, another someone to mourn.

I place the photo to one side and find myself face to face with a young Haymitch. His face is angular and clean, his eyes bright, alert, mocking. This photograph has been taken in colour, and his blue crystalline eyes beam out of the photo like pinpricks of light in the otherwise dulcet tones of the image.

His hair is cut shorter than it is now, but still long enough to be lazily swept over behind his ear. He's grinning at the camera, one leg crooked onto a wooden stile, one hand reaching up to grab its wooden post. His sleeve has been rolled up to his bicep and the line of shadow marking its slender definition has a prickling heat rising to my cheeks.

Haymitch was...attractive.

I can't help but blush when I feel the prickling heat again, spreading it's way through me into the pit of my stomach, but the cocky look on his young face, the one that speaks of confidence and arrogance and charm and playful charisma, remind me all too much of Finnick, my friend, my friend who died to save me.

I quickly put the photo down, the simmering heat turning into one of twisting guilt, and leaf through the remaining ones in my hand. There's a shot of a house which I've never seen before, a blurred picture of pinkish figures running across a green field speckled with white smudges of flowers, and a monochrome shot of a woman in a kitchen - the same woman as before. There's a mixing bowl in her hand, and this time a wry smile on her face as she peeks from behind a doorway at the unknown taker. She's older than before, that's for sure, but there's no doubting that this is her...Haymitch's mother.

I wonder what happened to her.

Then the last photo is in my hand, and a range of emotions passes through me like light through a prism, separating out into distinct rays before merging together, commingling into a sentiment so strong that it makes me gasp.

The young Haymitch stands facing a girl, both their eyes beaming at one another beneath thick eyelashes. They're both forever frozen mid-laugh, the girl's dimples just shadows on a piece of paper now. Her dark hair falls in gentle waves down her back which is clad in a white sheen of silk (although where she got something that precious in this District I'll never know). Haymitch too is dressed in white, a pressed shirt, now cuffed and smart, adorning his slender frame.

But what causes my heart to hurt and my eyes to sting more than anything, is his hand grasping hold of a single slice of bread, lifting it up to the girl's mouth. Her rosy lips are slightly parted, pearly teeth barely visible, as she opens her mouth to accept the offering.

A piece of toast. Something so simple, so mundane as a piece of toast...the perfect offering for something so simple and uncomplicated, as pure and unadulterated, as love. The reason why we give it to out loved ones. The reason why we present it on our wedding day. The reason why with it we promise ourselves to each other, till death do us part.

It's like I'm standing on the precipice of a cavern, deep and wide and black, a giddy unbalanced feeling taking hold, pitching me forward, despite the fact that I'm on solid ground.

Haymitch had been married.

To a girl.

To a girl that the Capitol destroyed.

And suddenly I know that Haymitch has the exact same hole in him as I do in me. A perfectly shaped hole where our hearts should be. Of course, you can't see it, you can't even tell it's there, but it's there all the same, jagged flayed edges of raw pain. It never gets any smaller, never heals, only gapes wide open and tears you apart.

Haymitch had been married.

To a girl.

To a girl that the Capitol destroyed.

Did he still think about her? When I see him staring off absently into the distance, is he thinking about her? Does he try desperately to remember her, or desperately to forget her? They say the first thing you forget is the sound of a person's voice. Can he still remember hers? Prim's lingers in my mind, like a soundtrack on constant loop. But even now it's fading and becoming warped, so that I'm not sure that it's even real anymore, just a ghost of a half-remembered sound. If I can't remember the sound of her voice, well, the hole in me just tears a little bigger.

Haymitch had been married.

To a girl.

To a girl that the Capitol destroyed.

And now his hate for the Capitol seems almost...fair. Was I really so blinded by my own loathing that I couldn't see that maybe other people had suffered just as much as me, maybe even worse? But knowing that, how can I be mad at him for saving me over Peeta, knowing that by saving me we stood a chance of overthrowing the Capitol, taking revenge on them for everything that they have done to him, to us. But even thinking that, I feel I'm betraying Peeta once again. Over and over I keep letting him down, keep failing him.

Peeta.

My poor Peeta.

Peeta could have been married.

To a girl.

To a girl that the Capitol destroyed, but instead - they got to the boy first.

I throw the photos back into the box and slam down the lid. Bending over and shoving the box under the bed and away from me, I push it to the dusty black corner. I manage to crawl under the covers and cocoon myself in them, pulling them over my head, safe and sound, as the tears begin to flow.

* * *

**_A/N:_**Thank you for taking the time to read :) Just to let you know, the next chapter is, shall we say, perhaps not child friendly! Just a warning before my next post. Hope you're all having a great start to the week!


	8. Promises

The box under my bed sits and collects dust. I can't bring myself to touch it.

I try to avoid Haymitch...in his own house. Somehow, I just don't think that I can face him, or maybe it's that if I face him, then I'll be facing up to the truth. The truth that no matter how fucked up things were before now, how fucked up things got during the war, they're still as completely fucked up now, more so than ever before in fact.

Who was I kidding, telling myself that maybe, just maybe, I could live a normal life after all of this? Was I really that naive, that callow, to twist my remaining strands of hope around the seed of an idea that perhaps things could have gotten better, that we could have survived this bloody war? Because it's not over you know. We may have stopped fighting, physically at least, but every day its a fight just to get out of bed, to keep caring about the little things, because I know as soon as I stop caring for them, I stop caring for everything else in life as well.

Peeta.

Gale.

My mother.

Haymitch.

I pinned my dreams on Haymitch, the lost and forgotten drunk of 12, the one they said would never, _could_ never, love again, and I filled him with my vicarious hope, entertaining some childish notion that Haymitch would be able to start something new after the Capitol's downfall. But it's not what he could have now, it what he could never have back then. It's the past that keeps us weighed down, and no matter how many wars we fight, no matter how many people we kill, it stays with us.

Haymitch reminded me of the truth: that the past is inescapable. And that's why I can't face up to him yet, because if I allow myself to believe, to truly believe, that there is no way forward, that my past will never let me move on...

I can't bear to think about it.

**xxxxxxx**

The woman on the TV is droning on about the new housing redevelopment programme, a backdrop of cranes and half built structures behind her on a plane of mud.

Haymitch and I are both facing the screen, listening to the regular news bulletin that comes out of the Capitol every night at seven. I shift my head slightly so that my hair hangs down over my cheeks, but I can still feel the flicker of Haymitch's gaze pass over me from time to time.

I pretend to be intensely interested in what the woman is saying...

"_...a utopia for all families, a place where everything needed for the perfect modern life will be provided for you. This is the start of a new era of growth and fidelity and friendship..._"

He's still looking at me and I bend my head even further forward, trying to use my hair as a thick black curtain to cover my burning cheeks. What does he want? Surely not to talk? Fuck. What if he does want to talk. Does he know that I know, about the marriage? Does he know that I took something obviously precious to him? Why is he looking at me like that?

Finally he places the bottle onto the table next to the sofa, with slightly more force than necessary, rubs his hands together and faces me.

"What's going on sweetheart?" he asks, bending forward to knot his hands together and rest his elbows on his knees. I glance at him and avert my eyes quickly away, fiddling with a loose button on my shirt.

"What do you mean?" I mumble into my chest

"You know what I mean Katniss".

I shake my head and give my shoulders a noncommittal shrug. Haymitch lets out an exasperated sigh and mutes the TV, leaning backwards and running a hand through his floppy hair.

"Look - I'm not good - at this kind of thing. I just - it's just, well, you would tell me wouldn't you, if - if - you know?"

I let my hands fall away from my shirt and finally turn my head towards Haymitch who rubs his eyes vigorously with his knuckles, so hard in fact that I think he might skewer an eyeball.

"I don't know Haymitch, no. I haven't got a clue what you're talking about". I shoot him a quizzical expression. He squints open one eye.

"I just want to know if - if, you're feeling - you're going - um..." he splutters out and rubs the back of his neck uneasily.

"God Haymitch, spit it out"

"Are you feeling, you know -" and makes a comical slashing motion against his wrist, and looks at me with a half joking and half guilt ridden expression playing across his face.

I physically reel in shock, and I'm sure it's plain to see on my face, so I quickly bend my head and go back to playing with the button on my shirt, which is now becoming so loose that only a few thin strands of cotton hold it in place. I shake my head once slowly, and then fast.

"No, no Haymitch, it's - it's nothing like that".

He nods and looks uncomfortable, seemingly unsure about whether to push the matter further, or simple leave it lie. I might as well be a sleeping tiger right now, for all the caution that Haymitch is approaching me with. He seems to make up his mind though as he stands from the sofa and moves towards the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asks, without bothering to wait for a response. He's nearly into the kitchen when I call him, his own name coming from my mouth making his stop sharp.

"Haymitch".

He turns, like a naughty schoolboy caught in the act, except his act is getting away from this entirely uncomfortable situation in which we've both just found ourselves in.

"I'm sorry", I say.

"Sweetheart, we've already been over this, I know you're sorry so let's just -"

"No", I interrupt him, "It's not that. It's just, I'm sorry...that you have to put up with me, you know. I know you didn't want this. You didn't even kill anyone in the war". I turn my eyes away from him to watch as the muted woman on TV talks and smiles silently. "You could have had a life", I whisper, "and I took that away from you, didn't I?"

Haymitch sways unsteadily on his feet, as if unsure of whether to stay or move forward, but eventually he comes towards me and sits at the edge of the sofa arm, facing me and hovering slightly forward, so that he's only inches away from where I sit in my armchair.

"You don't have to lie to me Haymitch." I say, training my eyes on a spot on the floor where the carpet has become so threadbare you can see the floorboards underneath, "why would you want to be stuck here with me? Hell, I don't even like myself, so why should anyone else?'

"Well maybe that's the problem then, isn't it sweetheart".

I whip my head and narrow my eyes at him, silently quizzing him on his response.

"Katniss, you have to stop this whole, 'I'm worthless, I'm shit' thing you've got going on. It's not doing anyone any good. And besides, it's not worth it, it's not worth it even in the slightest little bit"

"Haymitch I killed people. People died in a war because of me. I as good as killed my baby sister. I drove my mother away. I drove my best friend away, and I gave up my rock in Peeta to the bloody Capitol. How can you say that I have to like myself, when I hate myself even more than I hated the Capitol?"

Haymitch shakes his head and to my surprise reaches out a hand to grasp at my own. It's warm and clammy against my cold skin, but it feels...nice. My self-loathing is momentarily distracted in the suddenness of human contact. I can't help but stare at our two hands, his hand grasped over mine, his thumb resting on the delicate groove where thumb meets wrist.

"Katniss, look at me" he says. I move my head up to meet his gaze, but the way his grey eyes are penetrating my own, exactly like how they stared up out of the photograph at me, it's too much, and I quickly avert my eyes away.

His hand moves from my own, leaving a gust of emptiness where it had been. I miss it the moment it's gone, but then suddenly it's back, this time catching hold of my chin and forcing me to look at him. I can feel the calluses on his fingers as they touch my jawline with a gentle strength, the heat from his own body radiating into mine, so that it rushes through my entire skull, until my ears hum and my eyes are wide.

"The Capitol killed Prim, not you. You only killed those that it was necessary to kill. Ah-". I go to speak but he cuts me off, raising a finger to my lips. "Let me finish. There were people that suffered in the rebellion, but they suffered because they believed that what they were fighting for was right, and honorable, and just. They died fighting for what they believed in. And now they're safe. They can feel no more pain. They're at rest.

Don't you see Katniss, don't you see that you didn't kill them, you gave them the strength to stand up and believe in something different, to believe in something that mattered, so that at least when they went down fighting, they went down as men, as women, as fathers and mothers, not simply as cattle for the Capitol to do with what they wished. You did that Katniss. You saved them".

He drops his hand from my chin but his gray eyes, sharp like glass, cut deeply into my own.

"Please promise me, promise me that you won't think this way of yourself anymore".

It takes me a time to find my voice, but when I do it sounds small and trembling.

"Okay...just so long as you do to". Haymitch raises an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"If I promise, then you have to promise too"

"Promise what?"

"That you won't see yourself as worthless either!"

Haymitch snorts and leans back, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. "Sweetheart I'm long gone, I'm a helpless case".

"No, no you're not. You're not worthless. You - you took me, in, you helped me, through everything, and you tried to help Peeta too, I know you did, and you looked after us in the first games, and, and-"

"Shhhh", Haymitch cuts me off, "okay, shhh. I promise too". His eyes are gentle and he's looking at me strangely, gently, as if he's never seen me before, as if he's trying to work out some confusing puzzle.

"For real?" I manage to whisper before my voice cracks in my throat and breaks.

He nods. "Yes, for real".

There's a weird silence where neither of us speaks speaks, but our bodies stay close together, separated only by a few feet of electric air. But then he coughs and moves away.

"Better finish making that tea", he says and heads into the kitchen.

**xxxxxxx**

The faint grumbling snores that reverberate around the living room are oddly comforting, and I find myself subconsciously sinking my own breathing to his. In and out. In and out.

My feet are drawn up beneath my in my armchair and I lean a head against it's side, closing my eyes and concentrating.

In and out. In and out.

There's a half finished cup of tea on the floor next to me, a pasty anaemic shade of beige, that as usual Haymitch had put too much milk in and not enough sugar. Of course, with tea not being his choice drink, I guess I can understand his lack of skill in brewing, but chugging down even half of the lukewarm tepid tea was enough for me.

I open my eyes and stare down glumly at it. Sleep just doesn't want to claim me tonight. My chair is delightfully warm, but my neck is starting to get a crick which I try and massage out with my own hands, pushing my fingers deep into the muscles of my back to try and work out the knot that's formed there. The pain is almost pleasurable.

As it often is though, I move just slightly and am unable to get back into the same position, and I'm left with no choice but to unfurl my self completely, like some snake loosening itself from it's coil. My back pops as I stretch my arms above my head and inflate my lungs with the stale air.

The noise seems strangely loud in the deathly silence of the house, and I shoot a glance at Haymitch in case it might have woken him, but he remains in his deep slumber, ignorant to the world in front of his closed eyelids.

The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest is like hypnotism to me, and I simply watch it for a while. In and out. In and out. There's just something so reassuring in the breathes, that it makes my own chest warm and full. Perhaps it's the fact that the gentle whistle of breath is evidence enough that I'm not alone here. Perhaps it's just the fact that he's alive.

Something has changed between us. It's not something that I can't put my finger on. It's not even one thing, but there's definitely been a shift in the energy between since, since we made our promises to each other. It's not at all unpleasant, but it is a difference from the norm. There is no better way to describe it, other than to say I am now acutely aware of Haymitch. His presence. No longer are we simply two people sitting in the same room, but rather something...more. More what though, I couldn't say.

Haymitch moves in his sleep and one of his arms falls limply away from the side of his body so that his fingertips just brush the floor. My own hand tingles in response, remembering how he had taken it earlier, and if I close my eyes I can almost feel it ghosting over my skin, my hairs rising in response.

The reverberations through Haymitch's throat are cut-off and then he chokes out another snore, like an old car only just managing to get going. I sigh. The moon is bright outside the window, but my eyes refuse to fall shut, no matter how hard I will them too. I expel an event bigger gust of a sigh and push myself up, feeling the cold draft of the floorboards on my bare feet.

With a quick backwards glance at the sleeping man on the sofa I tiptoe up to bed, taking care to step carefully over the fourth step, and the fifth floorboard on the landing...the ones that creak. I keep the blinds pulled open as I climb between the cold sheets and stare out at the moon. It's so bright that I can make out the dark shadowy craters on it's surface and if I bring my thumb close to my face to block out it's face, the light looks like it's radiating from my own fingertip.

Scrunching my eyes together I turn onto my side, and try desperately to fall asleep, but to no avail. I try pushing myself over onto my other side, and then flipping onto my back, but still sleep seems a million miles off, my brain a hum of activity. I expel a breathe of air through pursued lips so that it comes out as half a whistle. Agh, why can't I sleep?

I feel the ghostly touch on my hand again, and although I'm sure it's just a lone draft making it's way through the old bricks, it makes me shiver, goosebumps rising on my flesh. But it's pleasant though, and I don't want it to stop, to let go. I can almost feel the pressure on my skin from the grasp of fingers, and a wave of raised gooseflesh trails up my arms as I feel the ghosting touch brush up my forearm. A deeper shiver runs through me and I snuggle down further between the sheets.

I touch my arm and it's hot, and I can't help but feel slightly aroused, never knowing how my skin could feel so sensitive to my own touch. I close my eyes and drag my nails lightly across my hand, delighting in the feeling of it. My own touch moves further up my arm and my breathe rustles and catches in my throat as I brush over the soft skin upon which my now healed scars adorn.

Circling a lone finger up my arm, I pass over the bend of my elbow and curve on my shoulder, until I reach my collarbone. As I cross the hollow of my throat I allow my imagination to take hold, pretending that the light touch of my own self is somebody else's lips tracing along my skin. It's an almost involuntary movement when my hand clutches at the round curve of my breast through the thin material of my pajamas. I can't suppress even the lightest moan from my mouth as I feel my nipple turn hard beneath my own touch.

The warm sensation which I feel along my naval begins to burn and tingle. I've felt a similar sensation before, once with Gale when he pressed his lips hard on to my own and pulled me close with a hand on the small of my back. But this is something different, something...bigger. Something expectant.

I don't want it to stop.

Listening quietly for any noises from downstairs I begin to twist the buttons from the front of my pajamas from the nooses that hold them in place. One by one they fall open, until I'm left looking at my white skin, translucent like tracing paper in the moonlight. I study the curve of my breasts silhouetted in the night, looking curiously at my own brown nipples that adorn their tips. It's like I've never seen them before tonight.

I wonder whether any one could ever want me. Truly want me. I'm damaged goods, physically and emotionally. Perhaps I was always destined to grow old alone. I brush my hand across my stomach, feeling the ridges of the scars adorning the skin. Who could ever want this? But still, the touch from Haymitch earlier sparked something in me, a want, a need, for human contact. Just the very idea of closeness from another being causes my nerve fibers to stand on end. I feel awake, properly awake for the first time in a long time, and my body craves the attention.

Still listening for any noise I reach my finger inside my mouth, swirling it around on my tongue and pulling it out, glistening with saliva. I close my eyes tightly shut and bring the wet finger back to my breast, brushing it across my nipple, lightly at first, but then with more intensity. My imagination is working overtime as I imagine my own wet touch as a darting tongue, flicking across my firm breasts. Taking a breathe I give one a squeeze, imaginary teeth nipping and biting.

The darkness of my vision clears and suddenly it's Haymitch whose invading my mind, it's Haymitch taking my breast in his mouth, tracking wet kisses along the gentle slope of my chest. I'm shocked and my brain is shouting at me to clear the mental image, to push it away, to stop, but I'm too caught up in the heat of the moment, too riveted by this erotic Haymitch.

I grasp both breasts in my hands, massaging them vigorously, imagining that it's Haymitch's and not my own hand which light a trail of fire along my skin and causes the burning in my naval to grow stronger with each passing second. I start to pick up the intensity and my head clouds with visions of this fake Haymitch pulling at my nipples with his teeth and then suddenly I let myself go, a groan of ecstasy spilling out of my throat as my back arches and my toes clench.

It's all I can do to lie still, panting short sharp breathes between the now hot sheets. My cheeks are flushed and become even more so when an icy grip of fear makes my heart beat fast.

What have I done?

Did I really - did I really think about..._Haymitch_.

In _that_ way?

Oh God. I don't know why he popped into my head, and the deliciousness of the moment was simply too much to stop from but...Oh God.

I button back up my shirt with fumbling fingers and draw the covers over my head, listening to my own strained breathing in the muggy air between the covers. I feel sick to my stomach. Why? Why? Why?

Why did I think about Haymitch? Not Peeta, not Gale. Haymitch. My mentor whose nearly twice my age, the guy who drinks himself to sleep every night. It must have been our talk from earlier and the photo that I found. The caring Haymitch I've never experienced before. That's it, I'm sure of it. He is the only person left in 12 that I know now...it's perfectly natural for me to feel an - affection - towards him, after all, he's the only one that shows any back to me.

But still, I've never even considered Haymitch in that way before. Ever. So what does this mean? Could I fancy him?

I entertain the idea in my head for a moment, pushing the covers off me and walking downstairs to where he lies dead to the world on the sofa, pushing my clothes off and forcing myself onto him.

No! No, no, no!

The idea sends shivers of disgust through me.

So why did it feel so good when it was him lying there, causing me to convulse with forbidden pleasure?

I'm shaking and my mouth is parched, but I can't bring myself to move, instead all I can do is draw my knees into my chest and will my brain to forget about what just happened, what I just did.

I really _am_ fucked up after all.

* * *

_**A/N**_

_****_**After a long hiatus I have decided to post this chapter which has been on my computer for a while! Hope you all like...reviews much appreciated!**


	9. Breakfast

My eyes are bleary with sleep when I finally wake up wrapped in a cocoon of twisted blankets. Groaning I rub them, adjusting to the brilliant sunlight which is finding its way through the window to spill out on the floor. Reaching out a hand I turn the small bedside clock to face me and sigh when I realise its already eleven o'clock. Gone were the days of being up before the crack of dawn to hunt. I miss those days. I miss having something to get out of bed for.

I clamber from my warm nest, and hop across the floor into a pair of sheepskin slippers and a jumper. The air has a cold chill in it and I wonder whether Haymitch will have lit the fire.

Haymitch.

My gut squirms horribly as I try desperately not to remember the activities of last night, but my reflection in the mirror betrays me, my cheeks already tinged a dark shade of pink. I gulp and run my fingers through my knotted hair, eventually settling to tie it into a loose bun, if for no other reason that I cannot be bothered to brush it.

As I make my way downstairs a comforting warmth greats me, and instead of the usual drone of the news reporter there are small cracks and pops as wood burns in the hearth. The flames entice me and I can't help but draw closer to it, its heat stirring something inside of me. I'm glad he decided to light it. It feels almost...homely. I'm reaching my hands out to it when there's a sound from behind me, a clanging of pots in the kitchen. I withdraw them and glance nervously towards the open door.

I suddenly feel very hot standing in front of the fire and a bead of perspiration forms and rolls between my shoulder blades. What if he knows? Surely he won't, he can't. But...what if?

I take small steps to the kitchen, my stomach whirling and twisting. He's here, his back to me as he stands working at something over the stove. He's whistling a small tune of some song that I don't know, and I sit down quietly at the table, drawing my knees to my chest and watching him work.

He turns with a pan of fried eggs in his hands, his mouth pursed in a half whistle and jumps half a mile when he sees me.

"Jesus Katniss!", he exclaims, righting himself and pushing the eggs onto two separate plates, "scared me half to death".

"Sorry" I mutter, picking up a fork and spearing the centre of the egg so that the perfectly formed bubble of yolk breaks and runs in yellow rivets around the plate. Haymitch hands me a piece of toast and sits down himself as I mop up the juices and savour the taste on my tongue.

I look across at him as I eat and watch as he takes a large bite of bread and then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. I frown down at my own breakfast and then look to him again, trying secretly to study his face, his mannerisms. He's certainly not unattractive. His grey eyes are alive and bright, his mouth firm and thin, but this isn't the same man as in my dreams last night, the one that made my insides burn. This is just - Haymitch. Mentor. Friend. Nothing else. I relax and begin to breathe normally again when I realise that I'm not attracted to my mentor, that I don't have to worry about a forbidden lust that I may inadvertently be harbouring.

"I was wondering if - if you'd had a chance to read those letters yet? You know, the ones from your mother, and Gale?" he says innocently after a few minutes of me secretly studying him, as if he's engaging in polite conversation about the weather. He keeps his eyes down at his plate, carefully letting his egg soak into the bread. I narrow my own eyes dangerously at him.

"No. No I haven't" I tell him. He nods and pushes the entire slice of toast into his mouth in one go. I shake my head and return back to my own breakfast, eating in silence until Haymitch excuses himself to take a shower.

That's our routine now. He cooks and I do the washing up. When did we become like this? So domesticated? So normal? I plunge my hands in the soapy water and listen to the shower above, just making out the faint tune of a whistle again.

If truth be told, I'd almost forgotten about the letters. I'd stuffed them into a draw, out of sight, out of mind. I don't think I want to read them, just another painful reminded of what I had once had, and what I've now lost. But maybe I should. Maybe they have something important to say. Maybe I should read them.

The sink makes a gurgling choking sound as I empty out the water and dry my hands. I run my fingers through the hair, pulling out the bun and letting it fall down my back. It could really do with a cut I think to myself as I head upstairs, closing the door firmly shut behind me. I sit on the bed cross legged, staring at the chest of draws and drumming my knuckles nervously on my knee.

Do I or don't I read them? Will they make everything better, or will they make everything just so much worse? Oh God I don't know. I just don't know. I lean forward hesitantly, debating with myself in my head, before a side wins and I push myself off the bed and open the draw, rummaging around through socks and knickers until my finger tips brush against the crumpled paper.

I withdraw my arms and stare at the two envelopes in my hands, a small piece of the people I used to love. It feels like I'm performing open heart surgery, and both their hearts are in my hands. My eyes flit from one to the other. Gale. Mother. Gale. Mother. Do I dare open even one of them? I close my eyes and let one of them drop to the floor, the one that I won't, that I can't open yet, and make my way back to the bed. I drag my finger slowly under the envelope, releasing the flap holding it down. My breathing hitches as I take out the creamy white present inside, unfolding it with shaky hands.

_Dear Katniss_, I begin to read, my fingertips ghosting above my own name.

_I know this letter will serve as no recompense for what I have done. I have let you both down...again. I couldn't save either of you, and for that I am truly sorry._

_I do not expect you to forgive me, I am not sure I even deserve it, but I mean it when I say that I truly wish for you to find happiness. The concept seems almost alien now, the idea that things might someday be normal, that a laugh might come as easily as breathing itself, that a smile will be as simple as walking. I fear there is little hope for me now, but for you I still hold out, my dearest, precious Katniss._

_It may be asking you too much, but if you should every feel like you want someone to talk to, to confide in, then I will be here. I may not be a very good mother, but I am still yours nonetheless, and I will always be here for you. I enclose my number in the hope that someday you may feel we can talk._

_All my love. Mother_

There's a number scrawled at the bottom of the page and I stare at it for a long while. At first I consider ripping apart the creamy paper in rage, and my fingers clutch angrily along its folds, but I release my grasp when I realise that I just can't do it. I can't feel angry any more, I can't go on hating, because if I do, it will destroy me.

I sigh and fall back against the sheets, the letter resting softly on my chest. The thing is, is that no matter how much I try, I cannot hate her, especially now. Losing my father was terrible, like ripping away a chunk of soul. And I understand now, after losing Prim, and Peeta, and Gale, the overwhelming feeling of not being able to go on. I understand why she couldn't look after us, look after herself. I guess what hurts really though, is that she's gone for a second time, that she left me when I needed her most.

I run my fingers across my eyes and close them, lying still for just a moment. When I open them the patch of sunlight on my floor has faded, and the sky outside the window is turning pink and green and blue. Dusk. Shit. I must have fallen asleep. There's a blanket that's been laid over me, the one that before was folded and set across the back of the chair. It's red and worn but lovely all the same: Prim's.

Haymitch must have put it over me. Which means he probably saw the letter, maybe even read it. I'm right. It's been moved to the bedside table next to me. I wonder if he saw it's contents. Maybe he's even spoken to my mother. I contemplate asking but then I don't think I even really want to know.

I push the blanket aside and after a second thought take the letter and fold it, placing it in a pocket and heading downstairs. The fire is down to its last embers glowing beneath dark coals and charred wood. The room is pleasantly warm and smells of pine, a change from the usual reek of stale liquor. Haymitch is no where to be seen.

I peek my head around the kitchen door and on finding still no sign of him I look out into the fading light of the back garden. I frown when I realise he's not here but then spot a note on the kitchen table. "_Gone to visit Sal_". I snort. Gone to visit Sal indeed. More like Sal has demanded he come round to her or face the consequences. I'm glad she isn't on my case yet.

Wandering back to the lounge I pull the armchair in front of the fire and sit with my legs drawn up beneath me, the pleasant heat whispering across the bare skin of my forearms. Shifting slightly the edge of the letter digs into one of my thighs and I pull it out, read it through once more, and then again. I trace the edge of the numbers written at the bottom of the page with the nail of my thumb.

I don't know what overcomes me, but I reach for the phone.

It's in my hand and suddenly I'm punching in the numbers, and then it's ringing a simple melody, connecting me to the districts. It's as if I've been punched in the stomach, like someone's thrown a bucket of water over my head. What are you doing!? I internally shout at myself. I pull the receiver away from my ear, intent on slamming it back into it's cradle, when the melody stops and there's a click as the line connects.

"Hello?" a woman's voice sounds. I freeze.

"Hello?" it calls again. I remain silent but bring the receiver back up to my ear, craving the voice again. Soft, gentle but firm. It's all I can do to keep breathing steadily.

"Hello?" the detached voice says again, this time more softly, like approaching a scared animal. There's an intake of breath on the other end and then: "Katniss? Katniss is that you?". I suddenly feel trapped. How did she know it was me? Do I have to speak now? I don't want to speak...I don't have the words.

"Katniss, if that's you, please - please say something".

The words are on the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill from my lips. About how abandoned I feel. About how lonely I am. How angry I am. How hurt I am. But nothing comes and my throat locks shut. I quickly reach down and press the end call button. The line goes silent and then there's nothing but a monotone note. I throw the receiver down and feel a great swell of emotion starting in my stomach, squeezing it's way up my neck and into my throat. And then it bursts and I let out a shuddering cry, tears spilling from my cheeks.

It was her voice. Her voice.

I don't know how long I cry for. It feels like only seconds, but then it feels like years and years. That's how Haymitch finds me. Curled up in a ball in front of the fire, tears streaking down my face, eyes red and hair knotted. And then he's there. His arms pick me up and he sits down, placing me on his lap. I burrow my face into his shoulder and rest my curled up fists onto his chest. He doesn't say anything. He just sits, and let's me cry, his arms wrapped tightly around me, gently rocking me back and forth.

At some point the tears stop flowing and the air is broken only by the small sounds of the fire and my pitiful sobs. I trace my finger along Haymitch's collar bone, hidden beneath his shirt. Yesterday the touch of his hand sent shivers through me, and now as his whole body surrounds me I can't help but press myself closer to him. The need for human contact runs so great through me at the moment, that I'm not even sure that I need it because it's Haymitch. I just - need it.

I shift on his lap when my legs begin to cramp up and a soft noise escapes from his throat. "Sorry" I whisper, resting my forehead onto his chest again. He shakes his head, comforting me that he's okay. "Did you read it?" I whisper again, waiting for his response, listening to his heartbeat, "it's okay, I don't mind if you did".

"I - yes, I saw it. I'm sorry Katniss" he speaks slowly, as if weighing up every word carefully. "She still loves you, you know that right?". So they had been speaking then? Or maybe that's just what Haymitch thinks every mother should feel for their child, an unconditional, unwavering love. Well if it's the latter of those, then he's definitely wrong.

I don't have the energy to argue with him so I simply nod and try to press myself further into him but his hands grasp me and pull me away so that I'm looking at him. His eyes are full of worry but also conviction. "I'm not lying Katniss, she just - couldn't deal with it anymore. Losing Prim was the last straw I think". He lowers his eyes and at first I think I'm angry with him for trying to defend her, but then I realise that this I don't think he's talking about my mother any longer, not really. This is something more - personal.

His gaze catches my own again and he looks at me strangely, a mixture of sorrow and compassion. "You're not alone" he says softly and bends down to plant a dry kiss on my cheek. My eyes widen and I feel my cheeks flush so I lower my head and look down.

"Thank you" I mumble into his chest. I remain this way, resting in the crook of his arm before Haymitch coughs and I become aware for the first time of the awkward position in which I sit on his lap. 'Sorry" I murmur embarrassed, pushing myself off of him, instinctively missing the warmth that his arms provided. He nods in acceptance of my gratitude and as I walk away I can feel his eyes following me

"Night sweetheart", he says as I reach the stairs, and reaches down for a bottle of alcohol, his gaze no longer focused on me. Usually I would frown and chide him, but it's like I can suddenly see him for what he truly is - sad and alone, just like me. He needs me just as much as I need him. He picks up the remote to the TV and I watch as colourful shadows flicker across his face as he takes a long drag from the bottle. The scene is almost painful to watch and I turn away, not baring to witness it any longer.


End file.
